


his blood on my bones

by jonphaedrus



Series: golden lads and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers, come to dust. [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Brothers, Canon Rewrite, Emetophobia, Enemies to Friends, Ensemble Cast, F/M, For Want of a Nail, Found Families, Gen, M/M, May/December Relationship, No Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-24 13:25:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 82,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10742574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonphaedrus/pseuds/jonphaedrus
Summary: but for want of a nail, gabranth lives.(but for want of a nail, noah fon ronsenburg dies.)





	1. of the fall of kingdoms

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [leading to worlds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6228379) by [Rethira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rethira/pseuds/Rethira). 



> this fic was, according to my records, started on march 5 of 2016, and was supposed to accompany rethi's fic. these things have a way of spiraling...way, way out of hand. very out of hand. taking over a year out of hand. i feel like i birthed a child. and now im showing you all.
> 
> this literally would not exist without rethira's beta and inspiration and...begging me to keep working on it for the past year. huge thanks also go out to chuchi8sushi and thetealord for both getting ideas bounced repeatedly off of them as this went along (and for, together, contributing like 2/3 of the playlist for this fic). meribiaa, ethereally, cherrim, and nectarimperial were my sprint mates during much of nano when the latter 40k of this was written, and a final hoot over to evocates who by total accident finally helped me figure out how to fucking cut this thing down from one 80k monstrosity to just
> 
> several monstrous chapters.
> 
> final chapter will have all of the resources used to write this fic.
> 
> (a note: if for some reason you find something odd in the first 30k, that is because i accidentally deleted all the italics and had no backup and had to manually redo them. so be aware there may be missing italics places. im doing my best here.)

Bur-Omisace _burned_.

It smelled like blood and sweat and metal inside the remains of his helmet, and smoke was pouring out of the temple through the roof.

"Vayne should have known better than to trust you with Larsa," Bergan spat, slicing forward again with his sword, Gabranth grunting as he met it halfway on the gauntlet of his injured arm. “You betray kith and country, what good are you as a guardian?” Gabranth bit back any response to the taunt, and focused instead on remaining upright, squinting through the half of his helmet that Bergan had smashed open.

The next strike from Bergan was aimed at his injured side, and Gabranth twisted _Highway Star_ to meet it, barely blocking the hit. “Chomping at the bit, were you?” Gabranth managed to get out, panting. “Just waiting for the chance to spear one of your own?”

“How funny you should ask me that,” Bergan was smiling under his helmet, Gabranth could hear it in his voice. “Which of the two of us put a blade through Drace’s chest, eh, Gabranth?” He saw red, and swore aloud at Bergan, itching to slam forward, strike back, strike again.

There was a thud against the doors of the temple, and then a second, and they wrenched open despite the debris built in front of them. In stumbled the gutter boy that Gabranth had seen in Nalbina, behind him the sky pirate and his Viera companion, and then the girl Penelo that Larsa had befriended, Princess Ashelia, and—

His brother.

“Gabranth!” Basch shouted, taking several steps forward, and Bergan saw his distraction as an opportunity, striking at Gabranth again, harder than before. He met the blade one-handed, struggling for a moment to throw it off.

“Get out of here!” Gabranth snarled, but Bergan was already turning around, and now it was too late for much of anything. The Princess’ lips were a thin line, her eyes narrow, and fury blazed bright on her high cheekbones.

“Ah, our vagrant Princess!” Bergan gestured to Ashe. “Swift has your lust for revenge—“ Whatever drivel he was going to spout Gabranth cut off neatly at the bud by lunging forward while the other man was distracted and bringing _Chaos Blade_ down hard and fast. The point slid into the leather over the man’s shoulder and bit down, Gabranth tearing as far as he could, the sound of the tip of his blade against the other Judge’s bone loud as it scraped. Bergan _screamed_ , twisting around, and ripped the sword from Gabranth’s hand, the blade still embedded in the underside of his left arm, which now hung useless, the tendons severed.

“My brother has killed our father!” Larsa shouted, his high voice ringing out clearer than any of the muddled thoughts in Gabranth’s head as he ducked to the side, dodging a strike from Bergan’s remaining arm. “Without Gabranth he would have killed the Gran Kiltias as well—please, help him!” Gabranth wanted to snarl at Larsa to tell him the _last_ thing he wanted was any help from his brother, but Basch hesitated a moment longer and then sprinted forward, taking advantage of Bergan’s ruined arm to duck around him without being in range of a strike while the boy, the pirate, and Ashe went straight for the judge.

Gabranth had his mouth half-open when Basch launched his full weight into Gabranth’s right side, and, unbalanced, he went down with a shout of pain, slamming hard into the dais of the temple, wheezing. “Stay there,” Basch snapped, glaring down at him as Gabranth started to snarl, and he paused as his brother put himself between Bergan and the steps. “You’ll only get in the way—you’re hurt enough already.”

Gabranth hesitated, and then closed his mouth rather than argue a moot point.

 

 

Bergan never stood a chance. His defeat was swift and brutal, even with the nethicite. He collapsed, screaming, as the power burned into his bones ripped through his chest, and he fell with a heavy set of clanks, to lie still on the ground.

Gabranth closed his eyes, gasping.

Two of them were left.

When he opened his eyes, the pirate and the Viera were crouched by Bergan’s body, inspecting it, and Larsa’s friend, the girl Penelo, was rushing up the altar, awkwardly stepping over his legs as she crouched down behind him. Gabranth carefully levered himself up, hissing between his teeth in pain as he looked over at the girl, who had stopped beside the Gran Kiltias. “Let me see. Um. Sir.” Larsa shifted aside, and pulled back his hands. They were covered in blood; it stained the white cuffs of his shirtsleeves.

She began to glow softly, from her hands up through the rest of her body—Cura.

“I could do nothing,” Larsa whispered, and Gabranth wanted to hold the young man, the tear-streaks on his cheeks as painful as the injury to his own shoulder and side. “I sat here and could do _nothing_.”

“No.” Princess Ashe skirted Gabranth like he was a piece of nethicite about to explode. She set her hands on Larsa’s shoulders as he hung his head. “You saved his life. If you had not put pressure on the wound, or ordered the Magister to fight for you, he would be dead, and all our plans for naught.” Gabranth felt something tight in his chest as he rolled the rest of the way to sitting up, and reached up with his good hand to wrestle the remains of his helmet off and tossed it to the ground, where it fell the last two steps from the dais to lay on the floor below, the hole smashed in the side flecked with blood.

The helmet came to a halt next to Basch’s feet, and Gabranth looked up at his brother, who was watching him with an expression of mixed anguish and fury. He looked...better, than the last time Gabranth had seen him. He had put back on weight, and actually filled out his clothes, although he could see the edge of the scarring from the manacles on his shoulders.

Gabranth looked away, rather than meet his eyes. Put his face in his good hand, fingers tangled in his sweat-mat hair, and just stayed still, trying not to move and aggravate his wounds any more. “Excuse me.” Penelo’s quiet, but firm, voice interrupted him at last from his reverie, and Gabranth looked up to find her staring at him. Anastasis’ eyes were closed, but he was breathing evenly, and while he had both hands wrapped around the shredded hole in his side, he was no longer actively bleeding.

“My hurts are not mortal, and trapped beneath plate and chain besides,” Gabranth said, and his voice came out harsher than he meant it to—almost a snarl. Penelo looked as if she had been struck. He softened it, the second time he spoke. “They can wait, girl. The Gran Kiltias’ life is worth more than mine. Do all you can for him first.”

Footsteps approached, and the sky pirate came up, leaning on the steps. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and sneered. “He set his very bones about with manufacted nethicite.” He shook his head, expression a mixture of disgust and disappointment. “The Gran Kiltias?”

“Will live,” Anastasis whispered as a reply, his voice tense even as Penelo returned to his side, taking a roll of bandages from the other gutter child, unrolling the linen and starting to bind up the wound on his side. Larsa sighed, deflating under the Princess’s hands, and pushed his bangs out back with the side of one wrist, trying to keep blood off of his face.

“Tell me you have not done the same, burdened your bones with Vayne’s _glorious_ purpose.” Basch said, the acid in his voice brittle and harsh, and Gabranth looked up at his brother, hesitated. The look on Basch’s face was stricken, and Gabranth shook his head mutely.

“I want no part of whatever they are trying to create. I remain wholly myself.” And oh, what a curse that was! “You need not worry about me beginning to spout nonsense about history.” Basch looked oddly relieved, and the silence stretched long and awkward until there were footsteps, limping, and Al-Cid emerged from a side hall. He was bleeding from a gash on his side, and winced as he came over to slowly sit down on a bench with the help of his assistant.

“What of the other Judge Magisters?” The pirate asked, one eyebrow raised. “How many of _them_ have partaken of ill-fated Draklor inventions?” The disgust in his voice when he said _Draklor_ made the hair on the back of Gabranth’s neck raise.

He recognised that voice, although he could not place to where.

“Ghis dealt with himself already, Zargabaath I am almost certain has done the same as Bergan, Drace—“ Gabranth’s throat closed up around her name. He thought of her face, twisted with pain, and the punch of air that left her chest when the blade slipped clean and neat between her ribs. The look of anguish in her eyes.

_Protect Larsa._

“Drace is dead.” Saying it was like dropping the executioner’s axe. It could never now be unsaid. “By my own hand, at Vayne’s orders. She alone had the bravery to face death head-on and pin the blame on the serpent.” His mouth tasted like bile. “She died for it, and best she did...she would have hated to see. This.” He gestured, vaguely, with his good hand, and had to take a few deep breaths. “Vayne ordered the remaining three of us here to retrieve Lord Larsa and bring him back to Archades. With Emperor Gramis dead, Lord Larsa is now direct heir to the Empire—he must be by his brother’s side. When Lord Larsa refused to return, Zargabaath ran while he still could. Bergan...had other ideas.”

 _Other ideas._ Bur-Omisace burned, the Gran Kiltias barely alive, Gabranth badly injured, refugees crying in rain-swept streets over still bodies.

He had never liked Bergan. At least Zargabaath had the honesty left in him to admit he was a coward.

“I cannot go back,” Larsa whispered, voice shaking. Gabranth looked up and saw the young man’s jaw was tight and face hard, despite the tear tracks burned onto his cheeks. “I _cannot_. My brother would make me a pawn, use me to cow the rest of the Empire to his ill-gotten rule.”

“No,” Gabranth echoed, shaking his head. “You cannot.” Drace had reminded him of his place—and that was protecting Larsa, regardless of whether or not he would see the end of the effort. “If you go back, all chance for peace is lost.” But if Gabranth stayed...it was just as bad. Raminas B’nargin Dalmasca had died at his hand, and every person in the room was right to blame him for it.

The room was dead silent, as all of them thought on the words. Whatever came next, they had just watched all of Larsa and Ashe’s hopes come crumbling apart.

“Princess,” Al-Cid’s voice was hoarse, “You must permit me to take you back with me to Rozarria.” Ashe looked over at him, and laughed spitefully.

“So that you can _protect_ me?” The jibe was there—what could he do more to protect her? Here they stood in the collapsed remains of Dalmascan peace. Bur-Omisace burned, the Gran Kiltias struggled for breath, and the only remains of Archadian law were a coward, a man who had turned traitor for the love of a child, and a corpse on the floor.

“I would lay down my life at a word to be sure, but I harbour no maundering delusions of valiant grandeur.” Al-Cid shrugged. “Vayne has our War Pavilion jumping at shadows. They favour a pre-emptive strike—but you, _you_ will convince them otherwise. You will see that they do not start this war.” As far as Gabranth could tell, although he did not say it, the Princess had professed the desire for peace, but continued to gain the very weapons that had started this war.

Ashe hesitated, and then shook her head.

“This I cannot do. Forgive me, but my errand here is not yet done. I must wield the Sword of Kings, and with it bring an end to the Dusk Shard.”

“Ah, this stone. Do you even know where it is?” Ashe looked flabbergasted, and Gabranth snorted quietly. No wonder Basch kept laying down his life for this girl—she was just as idealistic and foolish as he was.

“I can venture a guess.” the pirate said, looking at Bergan’s collapsed body, upper lip curled still.

“Draklor.” Larsa’s voice was hard as he stood up, coming over to Gabranth’s side. “In Archades.” The pirate nodded.

“All the Empire’s weapon research begins and ends there. I doubt they would keep it anywhere else."

Larsa shook his head. “I am certain it is there.”

“Doctor Cid is not one to let his toys out of his sight easily,” Gabranth muttered, and the pirate looked pained for a moment, but nodded. The Princess took a deep breath, crossed her arms.

“We leave at once, then.” She looked at Larsa, who was standing next to Gabranth, just behind his shoulder. Basch hadn’t moved during the whole conversation, and for the first time, Gabranth realised that his brother was standing between him and Ashe, subtly making sure there was no way Gabranth could get to her without going through him first. “As for matters in Rozarria...I wish you luck.” Basch and Gabranth held eye contact as Al-Cid snorted and stumbled to his feet.

“So you would leave each to fend for his own. Let us hope that you are not disappointed. My leave I take.” His footsteps were heavy as he limped out through the door caught half-open on debris, and left the rest of them in there, the silence heavy and dank like old mildew.

“I am coming with you,” Larsa said, the first to break the silence, as he looked to Ashe. “I cannot let my brother continue this madness. Not after...” he trailed off, and Gabranth desperately wanted to hold Larsa and tell him it would be all right, even if it would be a saccharine lie. “I refuse to believe that the differences between our two lands cannot yet be overcome by our shared dreams. There is something in Vayne’s plan that I do not yet understand, and I will not rest until I see answers, or wrest them from him by force if I must.” Larsa hesitated, and then sighed. “Besides which, I believe that to return to Archades now as my brother’s heir would be...dangerous, to say the least.”

“You can come with us, of course!” The kid from Nalbina piped up, uncrossing his arms and pumping one fist. “You’re part of the team, Larsa!”

Gabranth took in a shaking breath, and then pushed himself to his feet, his armour clanking. He swayed, worryingly, for a moment, but got his balance back. He had lost more blood than he thought. “If he goes, I go with him. You will take both of us or neither. Lord Larsa, I will _not_ see you returned to Vayne but—“ Protect Larsa. “I have a duty to fulfill, and I will entrust your safety to no other.”

“No!” Basch and Larsa said it at the same moment, and Larsa reached out, grabbing Gabranth’s uninjured hand in his own small ones, blood wiping onto the leather of his glove. Ashe turned her pale eyes on him, and her expression was thunderous. Gabranth narrowed his eyes at the Princess, but didn’t back down.

“He is _my_ charge, Princess. Pardon me for saying it, but I will not see Larsa kept safe with my brother.” Basch made his lips a thin line. “I will go with Lord Larsa and lend you my sword arm in his name until such time it is safe to return to Archades, or he and I shall go elsewhere.”

“Gabranth, it is not safe!” Larsa squeezed his hand tight. “If you go with us and Vayne catches you, he will have you killed!”

“Lord Larsa, should I return to Archades now after this, he will have me killed anyway.” As much as it pained him to admit it, it was true. Gabranth shook his head, turned his hand over, squeezed the young man’s fingers. “The safest place for me is at your side.”

“I cannot allow this,” Larsa snapped, and then looked to the pirate. “Balthier, you can kidnap me, and then Gabranth will be without censure.”

 _Balthier_. That was his name. The lad Ba’Gamnan had been searching for, Gabranth remembered now. “I,” he spluttered, and then crossed his arms. “Absolutely not! This is a step too far for me; Halim Ondore is one thing, but your brother would cut my head off, put it on a pike, and parade it around all Archades!” Larsa looked defeated, but the guilt writ plain on his face said it was true.

“I am coming. Even should you order me otherwise, Lord Larsa, I will and _must_ stay by your side.” If he trusted Larsa to anyone else, Drace would never have forgiven him.

“I will not walk along with you.” Basch’s voice was low and hard, and Gabranth looked up at his brother, who was watching him with heavy brows and a scowl as thunderous as the rainclouds outside. “I will not fight by your side.” Basch wasn’t the sort to snarl, but he was close. “I’ve seen you turn your blade on Dalmasca once, brother, never shall I trust it again.”

“I will not kill your Princess in cold blood,” Gabranth snapped back, temper short with pain and exhaustion. “Think what you will of me, Basch, but I had no interest in running Raminas through. You of all men should understand that duty can leave an ill taste.”

“Oh,” Basch finally lost his temper, snarling, hands fists at his side, “Yes, of course, and chaining me up in a _cage_ for two years to mock when the mood suited you, was that an ill taste as well? I for one envy you not the blood that must be stuck between your teeth—“

“Enough!” Ashe’s voice could have cut steel, and Gabranth and Basch froze. Gabranth could understand why it was his brother had followed her while she tore apart two countries. “Larsa,” she looked past Gabranth, as if pretending he was not there could make him vanish. The anger rolled off her in waves, and Gabranth for the first time wondered if the worry was not him killing her, but the Princess enacting the revenge for her lost country that he so rightly deserved to have caved about his head. “Can you vouchsafe for him?”

“Gabranth has guarded me all my life, even when to do so has been in derelict of his duty.” Larsa raised his chin. “I would trust no other above him, Lady Ashe.”

“Then,” she said at last, voice hard, “He comes."

 

 

That night they camped in the Paramina Rift. The campfire was near-silent, everyone keeping to themselves, and the stiffness hung in a pall over all their heads. Gabranth sat as far from his brother as possible, their backs pointedly to each other while they stuck by their charges. What little conversation there was happened in short bursts that exploded back into deafening silence.

Dinner was beans and rice and jerky, and it wasn’t the first time that Gabranth had eaten field food, but he couldn’t feel like it was mostly his fault they had to eat it, and he’d given Larsa most of his portion when the young man had looked hungry. Now that the conversation had finally all died out, Larsa had curled up next to him, and leaned against his injured arm, expression unreadable, arms wrapped around his knees.

Gabranth felt almost-naked without the weight of his armour, but he’d had to shed it for Penelo to heal up his arm and bandage the still-knitting skin of his shoulder and chest from his earlier wounds. The fact that he’d even struggled despite the injury as long as he had left Larsa scowling at him the whole time she’d been casting. In the silence and the falling snow, Gabranth looked out from where they were huddled next to an overhanging wall, at the mountains spiraling out beneath them, and slowly wrapped his arm around Larsa’s shoulders, pulled the young man over so that Larsa could lean against his chest.

“We’re so far from home...” Penelo’s voice whispered behind them, almost muffled by the snow and the wind, and then Gabranth glanced up when he heard shifting and footsteps crunching in the snow, Larsa turning his head as well as Penelo came over and held out the two mugs she had in either hand. “It’s cold,” she managed, at last, smiling. “Here.” Gabranth wanted to point out that he and Larsa were both wearing more clothes than she was, and then just awkwardly nodded his thanks and took the cup she proffered. “How’s your arm, Judge. Um. Magister. Uh, your Lords—“ and he shook his head, sighed, cutting her off as she stumbled over her words.

“Just Gabranth is fine.” He wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the cup, felt the warmth through his leather gloves. “I’ve no right to that title now.” If he ever even did—he still thought about Raminas’ body and the horror scarred on the King’s face in his rictus of death as Gabranth had pretended he was Basch and run him through.

Larsa leaned back against his arm, like he could heal the parts of Gabranth that just got ripped open, all over again.

“Can I sit with you?” Penelo asked, where she was still standing, and Gabranth felt Larsa nod against his arm, and shrugged. Why not. He had heard Larsa speak of Penelo, happiness in his voice, and anything that would cheer the young Lord up was fine with him. She crouched down next to them, and then flopped over onto Gabranth’s cape, which he had spread out beneath them to keep the worst of the snow off of Larsa’s clothes. She stuck her feet out, and rocked her shoes back and forth in the snow, stared out at the world with them.

“What was it like,” Larsa whispered, his voice muffled in Gabranth’s chest, “When your parents died?” Gabranth looked over, and saw Penelo’s face go tight—but of course. Dalmascans. So many children had lost their parents in the war. “I feel like I should cry,” Larsa’s voice was choked and hoarse, and Gabranth had never wanted to be able to protect him from the world more than now. “But all I feel is...empty. Like we’ll reach Archades, and Father will still be there. Waiting for me to come home.”

“No, that’s how it felt.” Penelo admitted, sighing. She watched the snow fall, like it had answers for her, and Gabranth watched Larsa watch her. “Like it wasn’t quite real. I would turn around and thought they would...still be there, at home. Like they’d gone on a really long trip, and they were just going to show back up one day.” She paused, and her voice was bitter when she whispered, “Surprise!” Gabranth’s mouth tasted like ash.

He had done this.

“It didn’t really hit me that it was real until after Reks died. Because then Vaan and I were...alone.”

“You knew Reks?” Gabranth found himself asking, without meaning to, and Penelo looked up, nodded. Her eyes were wet, and she half-smiled.

“We were...uh. Well.” Penelo scuffed her feet in the snow. “He’d said he would ask me to marry him, after the war was over.”

Gabranth had never wanted to sink into the ground quite as much as he did at that moment.

“Did you have any siblings?” Larsa asked, diffusing the tension, although Gabranth could not find it in himself to look at Penelo again, instead staring at his lap. He remembered Reks’ pained face, the anguish in his eyes. He remembered, clearly, putting a sword through the young man’s chest, punching through blood and viscera.

“Just Vaan,” Penelo said, her voice far away. Larsa nodded against Gabranth’s chest. “Oh, right...um. Vaan is Reks’ brother. He’s the blond one.” Gabranth nodded, mutely.

 _Vaan_. He remembered Reks saying that name.

He wanted to throw up. He could feel Larsa crying against his chest, and Gabranth took a few deep breaths of cold air, snow on his tongue, and tried to centre himself. Now was not the time. Larsa came first, even if Drace’s voice in his head said to him, _that’s an excuse_.

“She’s right,” he managed at last, the words coming to him awkwardly, leaden on his tongue. Larsa shifted, he could feel the young man looking up at him. “There’s nothing wrong with feeling like you are—like you’ve misplaced something, and you can’t remember quite what. Dealing with the death of a parent is never easy, and never when you are young.” He hesitated. “I still miss my mother.” Gabranth reached down, and squeezed Larsa’s hand, the young man’s slim fingers warm against his own. “Time dulls all wounds, my Lord, but nothing ever makes it go away. But it is not supposed to, either. Your Lord Father loved you, and you him. Eventually, you will begin to feel it soften but...you never forget.” Larsa was crying, slow and steady, and Gabranth pulled him closer, leaned down to press their heads together. “Nobody thinks less of you for loving him.” The truth hurt, yes. But Gabranth had known Larsa long enough to know that anything less would hurt him even more.

Penelo came to the rescue, trying to ease the sting of bile that was the truth Gabranth had given Larsa. “What was your father like?” She asked, looking at Larsa. “I mean...when he was your father, not, like, as an Emperor, or anything.”

“He was...” Larsa began, sniffing, “Thoughtful. He always planned everything, and he liked to hear what everyone had to say. Even when I was a child, I could weigh in as much as Vayne. He...always had sweets in his pockets, and kept every letter I ever wrote him. He used to read them to me sometimes, to make me laugh. Even the ones that I wrote before I knew how to write.” He laughed, wetly. “Father believed you had to stand on your own two feet and learn by doing. I supposed...needs now dictate that I must.”

“You shan’t be alone,” Gabranth promised, and he could feel someone staring at him—knew, without a doubt, that it was Basch. “You have found true friends in the Lady Ashe and her companions, and a clear future, even if you must fight for it. Your father would be proud of you for all that you have done.”

Larsa smiled and looked up at him. “And what of you, Judge Magister? Do I not have you by my side as well?”

Gabranth hesitated, and then whispered, “Aye.” It was almost reverent. “Until the end of my days, my Lord.” He would follow Larsa to the ends of the earth. Always would.

The worst part was, he and Basch were more alike than they ever liked to admit they were.

 

 

Golmore Jungle was so hot that Gabranth felt like he was baking in his plate mail, the humidity making the leather below stick to him like a second skin with sweat. It was disgustingly humid, and every breath was near to breathing water. He had never been so relieved to be back in the Dalmascan desert, because at least on the Ozmone Plain there was a breeze that lifted his hair off of his face.

“We’ll take a rest,” Ashe said, wiping the back of her neck, and if she was sweat-drenched wearing almost nothing, then it was a wonder Gabranth had not collapsed of heatstroke. He took a heavy seat on a nearby boulder and uncapped his canteen to drink deeply, and then unbuckled the pauldron on his right arm to better be able to scratch at his sweat-soaked bandages. He wished they had come off before they got to the jungle.

He desperately wanted a long dip in some cool water.

“We are badly in need of supplies,” Fran, as he had learned the Viera’s name was, said. She dusted off her knees and stood up from where she had been sorting through their travel packs, tightened the drawstring of the bag. “Some the Garif can bring, but we must needs return to Rabanastre.”

“Now?” The Princess’ voice was palpably annoyed, and she sighed. Vaan and Penelo, who had been walking with Larsa, perked up immediately at the sound of going home. It was, judging by their walking speed, at least another four, maybe five, days to Rabanastre.

Two and a half weeks since Bur-Omisace, all said and done.

“She’s probably right,” Balthier was stretching, bent double, and looked up to say it. “I, for one, am dreadfully tired of eating trail food. We could use a good meal, and a few days of rest. It is a _very_ long way to Archades on foot, Princess. We should take advantage of the chance to sleep in some real beds while we still can, the better to relish a month or more of laying on bedrolls and dirt.” She sighed, again.

“Fine, then.” Ashe clasped her hands. “Rest for a bit longer, and we shall make Jahara to spend the night, and Rabanastre the day after.” The rest of the group grunted or nodded, and they set off again sooner than Gabranth would have liked. He was still sticky and uncomfortable with sweat, but there was nothing to be done but suffer as he was.

Larsa walked with him, mostly, although often the young man ran ahead to join Vaan and Penelo, revelling as he was in having friends near his own age. The group mostly spoke _around_ him, like Gabranth was a strange man-shaped gap, and their eyes sloughed off of him rather than take too close a look. He was fine with that. The better he and Basch stuck to an uneasy truce—it was easier when they pretended the other one did not exist.

 

 

They slept the night after that at Jahara, Larsa tucked in next to his bedroll, and the following morning before they set out Gabranth found himself awkwardly clearing his throat, looking at the rest of the party. “I believe,” he began, hesitant, “That it would be for the best if I did not enter Rabanastre.” He gestured at his plate armour and added, “Especially not in this.”

“Definitely not,” Balthier shook his head. “Bad enough that we’re carting around _one_ Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg, still presumed executed for king-slaying, but two? I for one don’t particularly like the idea of being run out of Rabanastre or of being arrested, for it’s surely the not-so metaphorical noose if the Empire catches us. You can stay outside of the city until we can find you some clothes.”

“If I stay, Lord Larsa stays with me.” Gabranth said it without thinking, and the young man groaned. “Lord Larsa, there is not a man in the Empire who won’t be looking for you. It isn’t safe.”

“Gabranth—“

“What?” Basch growled. “Now you take guarding your charge seriously?” He had wrapped one hand around the hilt of his sword, and scowled at Gabranth like he was some particularly unfortunate thing that had been stuck to his shoe. “You seemed to care naught the last two times Larsa came with us.”

“You ran off with him from Ghis the first time,” Gabranth snapped, “And believe you _this_ , Basch, if I had known that it was you spiriting Lord Larsa about the Lhusu Mines I would have been far angrier—

“So, what, you will trust him to a few sky pirates and a gutter churl but not to a Captain of the Dalmascan Knights—your _brother_?” Vaan, behind Basch, shouted an annoyed “Hey!” but neither of them looked over.

Gabranth took a few quick breaths in his nose, clenched his teeth. “You could not be trusted with the memory of our homeland, if our mother still lived I would not trust you with her either, let alone—“ Basch took a half-step forward and grabbed the top of Gabranth’s breastplate and hauled him over until their noses were only inches apart. This close, Gabranth could see how near to his brother’s eye the scar over his eyebrow ran—how close he had come, two years ago, to taking Basch’s eye out.

“How _dare_ you say that to me.” Basch snarled, voice low and dangerous.

“Oh,” Gabranth could feel the old anger rising in him, remembering the day Basch left and never came back. “Like you cared so much the first time? In case you had forgotten, _brother_ ,” when he spat the world it was like acid, and his spittle flecked Basch’s beard. “ _I_ was the one of us who cared for our mother as she died from grief, calling your name after your retreating back, while _you_ ran off to find a new master in Dalmasca!”

“And did you not do the same?” Basch shook him hard enough his armour rattled. “Last I looked, brother, you had the Solidor leash like a noose around your neck. At least my master isn’t king-slaying, land-stealing, warmongering—“

“I have had enough of this!” Larsa’s voice cracked like a whip, and he shoved hard on Basch and Gabranth, throwing them apart, both of them stumbling. Gabranth glanced down in surprise as Larsa wrapped his fingers around the hilt of _Highway Star_ , shoving it back into its sheath. His other hand was on Basch’s sword, forcing it back as well.

Gabranth had not even realised that he’d been about to draw his blade.

“Captain Basch, your king’s death was no fault of your brother’s, however much he would like to pretend otherwise.” Gabranth tried to open his mouth, but Larsa’s scowl quelled his words. Basch closed his mouth so fast and hard his teeth clicked. “Gabranth, you will not speak ill of the dead, nor will you slander your mother. Apologise.” Gabranth took in a sharp, angry breath, but Larsa’s face softened at the edge of his eyes, and his breath changed to a slow, shaking sigh.

“I...my apologies, Basch,” he managed at last, and found he could not look his brother in the eye.

“Not accepted,” Basch snapped back, and they both stood dead silent until Larsa worked his glare on him, and Basch grumbled before he murmured, “Thank you, Noah.” The name hurt, a deep, physical pain in his chest. It had been—a decade, or more, since someone had used his given name. To hear Basch use it galled, _burned_.

He did not deserve that name.

They both stood perfectly still until Larsa sagged, his dark hair hiding his face. “I know your wounds run deep,” he began, voice hollow, “But you have yet the chance to see one another alive, and repair your relationship. Do not throw it away merely because you both value your hurts too greatly to be able to forgive them. Do what I cannot, and _please_ , see yourselves to friendship—or at least, to peace.” Gabranth felt stricken, and across from him he saw Basch’s shoulders slump. After a long moment, Larsa pulled away and wiped his eyes with the back of one hand.

“Lord Larsa—“ Gabranth began, but Larsa ignored him, walked faster, and then ran, a deafening silence hanging in his wake.

“I feel sorry for whatever idiots in the Imperial Senate think that boy will be a puppet Emperor,” Balthier said, under his breath but loud enough for them all to hear, and Gabranth nodded mutely. Larsa had never been one to do anything by half measures.

After that, he and Basch graduated to exchanging words, but never more than necessary, and for the first time, Gabranth began to walk closer—almost—with the party. Only this time, it was not their unspoken censure that left him silent, but his own.

 

 

When they reached Rabanastre, Gabranth hung back even further than usual. The desert, as it vanished and turned into sandswept, paved streets, seemed to call him back. Like he could hide out there, in the sandstorms, and not have to face the fact that right there sat the living, tangible reminder of all his sins. As if having the daughter and the brother of the two men who he most regretted killing walking everywhere with him didn’t do that, tangible ghosts visible in their haunted eyes.

“We shan’t be long,” Larsa promised, hanging back with Basch after the rest of the party had already gone into the city, headed up by Vaan who had jogged in shouting something about wanting to show someone named Dalan a cool skull. “As soon as we can. Are you sure you can wait?”

“I am,” Gabranth promised, and then watched as his brother walked off with the youngest Solidor. He knew, logically, that Basch was trustworthy and would guard Larsa with his life, but he still felt out of place. Not in the least because he was sitting in the sand, staring out at the desert as it swirled, and with nothing for companionship but his own, deeply judgmental thoughts.

It was near two hours later when footsteps out from Rabanastre made Gabranth look up. It was Larsa and his brother, Basch holding a bundle of clothes, and Gabranth struggled back up to his feet to meet them. Basch awkwardly held out the clothes. “I am yet a sight thinner than you, but they should fit,” he admitted at last, and Gabranth took the clothes, scowling as he looked at them. “They are not what you would have picked, but there is only so much you can do with Rabanastran fashion.”

“It will do,” Gabranth managed at last, unsure if it really would, and took the clothes. He stepped behind a rock and into a bush and stripped off most of his armour from the waist up, including the decorative tops of his greaves, and made a face as he dumped all the heavy armour into his cloak, shrugging the leather shirt and then the knit base layer off with it.

“Damn it, Basch,” Gabranth muttered to himself, in ill-temper, as he took a look at what his brother had brought back. He discarded the shorts outright as he would keep on the lower half of his armour, and struggled into the cropped shirt contraption that was somehow tighter than his leather under-armour had been, and threw the vest on over it like that would somehow make the see-through blue silk that cut off at his pectorals more decent.

Grabbing his cloak and the armour within, the Imperial emblem turned to the inside, Gabranth stomped back out, tugging on the vambraces Basch had thought to include as he went, coming to stand back in front of his brother and charge.

“It was the best I could find,” Basch admitted, looking at him with more humour on his face than Gabranth wanted to see. “Most people in Rabanastre are not looking to protect vital areas in combat.” Larsa, on the other hand, was staring at him wide-eyed, and Gabranth shifted awkwardly, wanting something to tug further down. He hadn’t been in so few clothes except to sleep since he was still a raw recruit in the Archadian military.

“How can you Dalmascans _wear_ this?” He said instead, tugging down the sleeves of the supposed-shirt.

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Basch replied, gesturing to the Giza Plain around them, “Rabanastre is in the centre of a desert. Needs make the fashion.”

“Aye, and when I get stabbed, it is your fault.” Basch didn’t look like he felt too guilty for that, and Gabranth followed after Larsa and his brother back into Rabanastre in a sour mood, looming behind them and thinking nasty thoughts. He shucked the stupid blue shirt almost immediately, and just stayed with the tan sleeveless vest Basch had found. That was honestly less humiliating than the other option available.

That night, they gathered in the largest of the rooms that Balthier had taken for them in the Sandsea, and the pirate spread out a large, use-worn map of Ivalice on the table, setting down candles on the edges to keep it flat. The party crowded around, and Gabranth slid in behind Larsa, hands on the young Lord’s shoulders. Balthier carefully charted the path they were to follow north, drawing a line on the map through the various areas they were going to pass over. “It should be near to a month of walking, once all is said and done.” He frowned. “Necessity asks we go faster, but to do so would require risking trying to get in over Archadian airspace, and I don’t much fancy trying to sneak in past whatever security checkpoints they have up now. The ire of the Empire is one thing, getting ourselves killed another entirely. Whatever awaits in Draklor will have to just keep waiting until we get there.”

“We need not remain blind and deaf to the goings-on in Archades,” Gabranth piped up after a moment. “I have some contacts, here in the city and along the way. I trust them, as far as such informants can be trusted. I can see what information I am able to learn while we are here, and then continue gathering more as we travel.”

“I doubt we will need to worry about running out of time,” Larsa admitted, leaning back into Gabranth’s hands. “Now that my brother has shown the worst of his hand, he is like to wait for Rozarria and the Resistance to make their moves before he reveals the rest. It is the sort of thing he would do—let them play into a trap, rather than take the fight to them. The Marquis will not strike until his army is ready for heavy combat, and I doubt Rozarria will push his hand for some time yet.”

“Good then that we have time, but bad that he still has the power to push things over the edge if it comes to that.” Ashe shook her head. “There is no time to waste, but Balthier is right. We need to keep close to the ground. Vayne cannot find us.” She looked up at Gabranth, who found himself unsettled at meeting her eyes.

She had her father’s eyes.

“Judge Magister—”

“Gabranth,” he corrected, not for the first time. “My title is by far the most dangerous here. If we are overheard, it could be the death of us all. Names are even more than I would choose to risk.” He would go by _Noah_ but the thought left bile in his mouth.

“Fine,” the Princess softened slightly. “Will you have answers by tomorrow morn?”

“Certainly. They work fast.” Gabranth found himself smiling with a good bit more teeth than he had planned. “I have something of a...reputation for not suffering fools. My subordinates know how to work.”

“Then we shall leave in the morning. Vaan, I know you mentioned you had a few hunts?” The young man nodded, fiddling with the edge of the map.

“Yeah. Most of it is on the way, though. I have a few around here, but if we can hop on the _Strahl_ we’ll be done before midnight.”

“She can probably take it,” Balthier mused, but then his voice hardened and he made a face. “But speaking of, while it isn’t a problem _now_ , whenever we get in her again everyone is going to have to rearrange. There aren’t enough bunks for two more to fit, and we’ll need a new bathroom roster as well.” Fran groaned, and Penelo sighed. “We could go back to alternating days for showering, or cramming people into shared bunks—“

“The last time you tried to do that, Basch had to sleep in the hallway,” Vaan pointed out, and Gabranth found himself smiling at the chagrined expression on his brother’s face.

“It shan’t be an issue.” Larsa said it firmly, and Gabranth looked down, the young man meeting his eyes. “Gabranth and I can share a bunk without difficulty; we have done so before and can do so again.”

“That would be wise.” He nodded. “You have all proven yourselves trustworthy...however much it galls me to admit it. But it is safer, the closer I am to Lord Larsa.”

“Then you two can have the camp bed in the main cabin, should we ever return to the skies.” Balthier banged his fist on the table. “With that dealt with, that’s all for tonight. Rest, relax, restock, buy anything you think you’ll need, as there’s naught much to be bought between here and Archades. Dawn, tomorrow. If you aren’t up, Vaan, I will come over to Miguelo’s place and knock you out of bed.” The young man looked indignant, but they all split up to return to their rooms or to their hunts or their errands.

“I shall be just a moment,” he promised Larsa, who went on without him, and Gabranth turned to Balthier.

“Yes?” The man said. There was something about his voice that was increasingly familiar to Gabranth, although he could not place what. His accent was _definitely_ Archadian, although he was trying very hard to make it not.

“I need somewhere to put my armour that it will be safe. Can I leave it on your ship?” Balthier hesitated.

“Judge’s plate on the _Strahl_ is last on the list of things I would ever want on her, but yes, you may.” He crossed his arms. “Better there than anywhere else.”

“Thank you.” Gabranth left his rooms a moment later, and the last errand he did after intimidating his contacts around Rabanastre, tapping back into the vast information network of the Archadian Empire, was to place his Magister’s plate—minus the ruined helmet, left in Bur-Omisace—into the cargo hold of the _Strahl_.

Late that night, the quiet sounds of sleeping Rabanastre floating through the open window that had been left thrown wide to let in the cool night air, Gabranth found himself pulled out of sleep by a shift on his mattress. He was a light sleeper naturally, but with Larsa there and in a strange place, he was a lighter sleeper still.

It was no assassin, though, just Larsa, who lifted the sheets on Gabranth’s bed and slid in beside him, lifting one of Gabranth’s arms to drape it over his waist. The young man pressed his back to Gabranth’s front, and he pushed his face into the pillows, breathing ragged. The mattress was slim enough that there wasn’t really room for two people, but Larsa made it work, mostly by virtue of still being so small.

“My Lord?” Gabranth mumbled, voice thick with sleep. Larsa was shaking slightly, and made a wet noise, but otherwise remained silent. Waking up further, worried by the non-response, Gabranth tried again. “Larsa?”

“I keep having nightmares,” the boy whispered, breath warm on Gabranth’s arm under him. He pulled the young man closer, like he could keep the world from doing Larsa any more ill than it already had.

“Do you wish to speak of it?”

“No.” Larsa fell silent, and slowly Gabranth began to drop back asleep. With Larsa in his arms, he had a lot less to worry about in terms of having to be alert—if anyone came at Larsa, or the young Lord tried to slip off, he would know. “If...” Larsa finally whispered, the susurration knocking him back out of sleep. “If my father had not ordered you to protect me, would you have taken me back to Vayne, like you were supposed to?”

“Larsa,” it took Gabranth a moment to make the word happen, his mouth thick and heavy with sleep, “You should know by now that I will never take you anywhere you do not wish to go.” He fumbled and ran one hand down Larsa’s side, trying to soothe him. Indeed, as time went on, he was discovering more and more that his loyalties lay not truly with the Archadian Empire, but with Larsa Solidor himself.

Dangerous thoughts, for a Judge Magister.

“What if Vayne ordered you to kill me,” Larsa’s voice was so soft that had they not been tucked in beside one another, Gabranth would not have heard. Even still, it woke him up fully, abruptly from sleep to wakefulness, and his heart pounded with worry. Awkwardly, he pulled the arm under Larsa back and sat up, blinking down at the young man curled against his sheets in the dark.

His face was wet with tears.

“As he did Drace? As he did King Raminas?” Larsa looked up at him, sniffing, blinking back more tears. “Would you?”

Gabranth went silent, the words bottled up in his mouth, and slowly shook his head. “I would sooner fall on my sword.” he whispered, voice cracking. “No order from your father or your brother could ever change that.” Larsa nodded, and Gabranth shifted slightly back down so that Larsa could wrap slim arms around his neck, held Larsa against his chest as the young man sobbed into his shoulder. “You are more important to me than the world, my Lord. I will follow you unto the end of days; you have naught to fear from me.” He hesitated, and then added, “You never have.”

“Thank you,” Larsa murmured into the side of his neck. “I am so...tired, of crying. I should be stronger than this. A _Solidor_ should be stronger than this.”

“There is no weakness in crying,” Gabranth promised, laying back down, Larsa still tucked against his chest. “In fact, I believe that the greater strength may be in admitting you have the tears to spill. Bravery means facing your fears—it is not childish to cry while doing so.” Larsa nodded, but said nothing else, and Gabranth fell asleep with Larsa half on his chest, thinking desperately that the world was too unkind if it wanted to see his goodness broken, just to prove a point.

 

 

Two days later saw them trudging into Nalbina. After the walk back from Bur-Omisace, it wasn’t nearly as exhausting, and Gabranth could see the logic in not wearing full armour on a journey like this. “More places I never wanted to see again,” Basch said, hand on his sword, as he looked up at the fortress. Out of the corner of his eye, Gabranth saw the princess set her hand on his arm and squeeze. Gabranth pretended he wasn’t there. “Best be through and not linger.” Basch added, and pulled away, walking ahead, Ashe keeping pace.

“I have an errand to run. I will meet you anon, before we leave.” Gabranth said, to the other five. “Larsa—“

“We’ll keep an eye on Larsa,” Vaan promised, rubbing his nose. “No worries.” Gabranth nodded his thanks and left to wander off through the crowds, pushing past the various travellers in Nalbina Town, ducking awkwardly around the Imperial soldiers, glad that so few people saw Judge Magisters without their helmets. It wasn’t too hard to find the peddler who was selling armour, and while his purchases were not cheap, he managed. He found an empty garden in the fortress and changed there, breathing easier once he had actual armour on, and strapped both his blades on, swordbelt comfortable on his hips.

It had not been too long as Gabranth made his way through the rest of Nalbina Town, still keeping his head down, and emerged on the other side, the fortress casting a heavy shadow as the sun edged across the sky. To the north stretched the Highwaste, waiting for them to all go through it. The party was gathered around a well, refilling their canteens, Larsa hopped up onto the rim, kicking his legs back and forth against the bricks.

“So you’re saying,” Vaan’s voice carried as Gabranth came over, the vest Basch had bought for him in Rabanastre tucked under his arm, “It’s protocol?”

“Yes,” Larsa confirmed, the breeze blowing his hair off of his face. “It’s considered improper. Since Judge Magisters are Archadian law, there are _reams_ of books explaining the precise military conduct and legal procedures. Part of that concept is that once you become a Magister, you become the role.”

“Right, so you’re the job, not a person.” Vaan rubbed the back of his neck as Gabranth came over. “Seems a little bit excessive. I mean, you can’t sleep in full plate.” A beat. “Can you?”

“No.” Larsa laughed. “It is essential to the system to have it set up so that no single man or woman is the law. Rather, it is more the _concept_ of Judge Magister that is the law. That is why the armour is required at almost all times.”

“You are only permitted to remove it for necessities like sleeping and eating, for state functions, on your flagship, or with permission of any higher-ranked commanding officer.” Vaan jumped slightly, spinning around to see Gabranth. “There is, in fact, a blanket ban on removing your armour in front of junior officers except in specific situations. I know some of the other Magisters were less cognizant of those protocols, but I have always abided by them.”

“It’s suffocating,” Balthier whispered, staring off, his jaw tight. “You’re no longer a person in that armour, just an _idea_. That’s the intention, of course, but it doesn’t erase the man inside any less.” The hate in his voice was palpable, and he talked about Judges like he had a personal grievance.

It reminded Gabranth of something, although he still could not place his finger on what.

“So...” Vaan turned, leaning on the well next to Larsa, looking at Gabranth. “You won’t get in trouble for going around without it? I mean, you left your helmet in Bur-Omisace.”

“At this point, no matter what I do, I will be in a great deal of trouble if we ever do return to Archades.” Gabranth shook his head. “Frankly, I can’t see why it would matter any more than kidnapping the Emperor’s son and joining the Dalmascan Princess’ insurgence.”

“Besides,” Larsa kicked his feet, smiling knowingly. “As the current heir to House Solidor, since the Senate has been disbanded at my brother’s orders, I am the second highest ranking official in the Archadian Empire. I already gave Gabranth permission to remove his armour; he has every right to go without it.”

“I mean,” Vaan rubbed his chin, looking at Basch, who was talking with Ashe as they bartered with a merchant for a deal on potions, “That explains how nobody knew Captain Basch had a twin.”

“Which of you is the elder?” Balthier mused, looking at Gabranth. “Do you know?”

“Uh,” Gabranth said, as Larsa perked up.

“I never have asked,” Larsa leaned forward from his perch on the well. “Gabranth, who is elder?”

“Um,” he hemmed and hawed for a moment longer, and then sighed. “Basch, by two minutes.” The three men looked at each other, and Gabranth cleared his throat, annoyed that he had admitted to being the younger twin, since now Larsa would never let him forget it. “I...will go and return this to Basch,” he managed at last, and left while he still could.

They had finished their haggling with the merchant, and Fran was inspecting the potions as she tucked them into their travel bags, Ashe paying the Bangaa. Gabranth walked directly to his brother, who looked up just in time for him to shove the folded-up vest into Basch’s hands.

“Very funny,” Gabranth mumbled, glaring. He had never been so glad to be free of ill-fitting clothes, even if he had discarded the...shirt. Thing. “Someday, I aim to make _you_ wear that shirt and see how you feel.” Basch was already wearing a vest with nothing under it, and he gestured at his own clothes with eyebrows raised, as if to say _I already do_.

Gabranth scowled.

Basch sighed, put-upon, and took the vest back. “After all that loving effort I went to finding you clothes that fit.” Even if he had bought for his own weight, and not Gabranth’s more solid, heavy-set frame, padded with muscle and fat from years of wearing full-plate. “A little gratefulness would not be out of place, brother.”

“Bite me,” Gabranth snapped in Landiser, Basch looking surprised at his use of their native language as Gabranth pushed past him, tangling his fingers in his hair. The rest of the group gathered back up, Larsa’s footsteps coming up beside him.

“You look much more yourself,” Larsa admitted, looking up at him. Gabranth glanced down at himself—he had lost the ridiculous vest, and instead now wore a loose black linen shirt with the collar open, under heavy sleeveless scale mail that covered his chest and went down past his waist almost to his thighs on one side. He would have gone with chainmail as well, but with the amount of time that they spent tromping about the desert, he didn’t want to have that grinding sand in and abrading his skin.

Gabranth had kept the vambraces that Basch had found, because they were quite good, and the jointed mail would work to block strikes like he usually did in plate. That with his leather gloves, retained from his armour, was good enough for now.

“Nalbina has to sell to soldiers,” Gabranth replied, straightening up. “I had hoped this would meet muster.”

“I am significantly less worried about you taking a sword to the gut now.” Larsa nodded, then looked at the rest of the group. “Shall we be on our way, then?" Everyone nodded, and they started off, Penelo skipping on ahead of them as they went out of Nalbina and up into the Highwaste, every step a step closer to Archades.


	2. the province of allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basch had damned Landis, and damned Gabranth and their mother with it, but Gabranth should never have let Vayne tie his hands into killing Raminas while wearing his brother’s face.

They were two days into the Mosphoran Highwaste when four vultures came shrieking down out of the rocks at them. “I think we went too near their nests!” Vaan shouted, sprinting backwards as one of them raked claws up his back, grabbing his vest and making him shout as he wiggled away.

“You think?” Fran snapped back, flipping an arrow out of her quiver and firing it at the vulture attacking Vaan, distracting the monster.

“I can handle this!” Larsa called out as he came running past Fran, drawing both his swords. Gabranth had taught the young man to fight airborne enemies himself, but he still felt a sudden surge of fear as Larsa put himself front and centre, body taut as he waited for the birds to swoop down. When a burst of flame from the Princess’ black magic made one of the vultures duck down, Larsa took advantage of the motion and shouted as he jumped forward, sliding the point of _Joyeuse_ directly into the soft muscle between the vulture’s wing and its body, slicing downward. The bird fell easily, and the second and third went down just as fast, Larsa snapping the claws on one bird with the blades of his swordbreaker and slicing its head from its body.

It was masterful work. Gabranth had seen Larsa fight beside the rest of the party on their way from Bur-Omisace, but here he was in his element. He had trained so much on his own—he was well on his way to being a fine fighter, better than his brother.

The last vulture had dodged Ashe’s magicks, and came flying down at Larsa, who crossed his blades, preparing to block it as he had before. However, this time the monster tucked its wings as it dove and struck Larsa with its full weight. Based on size alone, there was no chance—Larsa went tumbling with a shout, taking four or five quick unbalanced steps backward before his left foot twisted under him, and with a broken, pained shout went down hard, sliding and stumbling down, dropping both his weapons as he grabbed his leg.

“My Lord!” Gabranth’s voice cracked, and he drew both his blades, throwing himself at the vulture with an inarticulate snarl of fury.

It didn’t stand a chance, and fell to the ground still, broken, and bleeding, and Gabranth sheathed his swords, turning around. There was sweat in his hair and on his face, and he searched his charge out, stumbling as he sprinted down the hill, hands shaking as he ran. “Lord Larsa!“ Gabranth almost tripped and fell flat on his face, catching himself with one hand thrown out behind him, scraping down the dirt of the hill as he landed at Larsa’s side, hard, on both his knees. He was glad, in that moment, for his leather gloves. “Larsa—“ The young man didn’t look up, just gripping his left shin, and Gabranth shook.

He had failed. _Failed_.

“Hang on,” footsteps approached, and Gabranth glanced up as Penelo pushed past him, Larsa wheezing for breath as she pulled his hands away from his shin. “Let me. Please, Larsa.” He made a wet noise as she stretched his leg out, hissing. Gabranth, knowing when he wasn’t needed, shifted to the side to help Larsa sit up, the young man leaning into his arms.

Back up on the hill, Gabranth could see Vaan crouched in the mess of vultures, drinking a potion with one hand and sorting through feathers and viscera for anything worth taking with the other. While he cleaned up, the rest of the party came over, out of breath from the combat, even though Larsa had done most of it. “It’s a clean break,” Penelo said at last, looking up at Larsa. “I’m going to have to snap it back into place, but I can heal the bone. You’ll just have to stay off of it for a week or so while the healing sets.”

“Lovely,” Larsa grit out past clenched teeth. He nodded, and then yelped in sharp, high pain when Penelo snapped his leg back into place, gasping for breath and digging his fingers white-knuckled into the meat of his thigh through his boot. After that, his breathing was high and fast, but he remained utterly still as Penelo started casting.

Footsteps came closer, and Balthier held up a long stick. “For the splint,” he explained, and Gabranth took it, snapping it neatly in half. It was straight and even, and the exact right size for Larsa’s leg. Penelo took it distractedly, still murmuring magic as her hands glowed white.

“Help me get his boot off,” she murmured to Gabranth, who did as ordered, tugging it down so that Larsa didn’t have to move his leg at all, although he whimpered once or twice until it was off. Penelo bound up his shin efficiently after that, and patted his knee. “You’ll be walking again before you know it,” she promised, a bit out of breath. “You just have to be careful. Nothing but time will strengthen the break. If you put too much weight on it too fast, magic or no, it _will_ snap again.”

“I shall be careful,” Larsa promised, looking up at Gabranth, still crouched behind him. Gabranth did not need to be asked—he carefully helped Larsa to his feet, and he swayed worryingly, wincing as he leaned on his unbroken leg.

Gabranth hesitated, and then sighed, crouching down, elbows on his knees. He heard Larsa laugh, still a little unsteadily. “Why, Judge Magister,” he was _teasing_ Gabranth. “I remember you saying once quite recently that piggyback rides were too undignified for twelve year olds.”

Gabranth hid his smile. “Necessity is the mother of invention. I suppose that I can stoop myself to ferrying you about.”

“I’m flattered.” Larsa laughed, wrapping his arms around Gabranth’s neck, and held on tight as he stood up, adjusting the young man so that he was comfortably perched on his back, thighs wrapped around his waist, Gabranth’s broad palms and forearms holding his legs up. Larsa dug his chin into Gabranth’s shoulder, breath warm on the side of his neck over his ear. “Oh,” Larsa was brightening up already, arms hung loose around his neck. “I forgot how tall you are.”

He tried to look sour. He really, really did. Tried to scowl, or frown, or glower, or even manage a loom. Instead, Gabranth found himself smiling, stupidly. “What am I,” he managed at last, shifting from foot to foot as he got his balance back, compensating for Larsa’s weight. “An ill-tempered chocobo?” The entire group laughed around him, and something lifted along with it—a pall that had still been hanging over them all vanished, and for the first time since Bur-Omisace, Gabranth felt more like he _belonged_.

They looked at him less like the man who had killed the people they loved, and at him more like a...friend.

They set off like that, Larsa bouncing comfortably on Gabranth’s back in what was essentially the safest place he could have possibly been, commenting quietly into his ear and occasionally yelling loud enough to his friends that it made the older man wince slightly. Every night, his injury took a bit more weight, was able to wobble around on his own a little bit more, but Penelo had still not told him it was good enough to walk.

It was a few days later, after they took advantage of the night to sneak past a nest full of more basilisks than anyone wanted to deal with, that Basch fell awkwardly into step beside Gabranth, arms crossed. Gabranth glanced to the side to look at him, and it was a moment before Basch shrugged one shoulder in reply. Neither of them said anything for a long while, just walked in step, and watched Vaan leap onto Balthier’s back, flopping boneless over the pirate and asking how much further it was to the Salikawood, Balthier muffling a noise as Penelo took a running jump and threw herself up as well. He stumbled and almost fell flat on his face as Fran and Ashe laughed.

It got even sillier when Ashe took a running start, and hopped onto Penelo’s back, and Balthier really _did_ go down with a high yelp, groaning from where he was presently being flattened by three other people.

“Do you...” Basch began, as the four on the ground disentangled themselves. Gabranth waited to see where his brother was going, “Want to trade him, for a bit? I thought to offer; you’ve been carrying him three days now. If you need a rest—“

“He is not a burden,” Gabranth cut Basch off, keeping his voice pitched low to avoid waking Larsa, who was breathing even with sleep in his ear, bumping a bit with every step. “I mean that,” he added, when Basch looked disbelieving. “Truthfully, he weighs less than my armour does. It is no greater a stress than what I am used to.” Gabranth looked out of the corner of his eye at Larsa’s face, softened with sleep. “Besides,” his voice dropped to a near whisper, “There is no one else I would rather carry, nor anyone I would rather have carry him. Larsa is perhaps the greatest thing Archades ever produced. It is an honour to serve him, in whatever way I can.”

“He is...so unlike his brother.” Basch managed at last, staring at Larsa. Gabranth nodded.

“They have different mothers, although that does not explain how they went down such different paths. Rarely have I met anyone as good-hearted as Lord Larsa.”

“You look at him as Vaan says I look at Lady Ashe.” Basch’s voice was pitched quiet, and Gabranth glanced at him, and then over at the Princess, who was apologising to Balthier while the pirate dusted himself off as he walked, looking sour. “They are truly exemplary—the next generation, if they are any sign of it, will have far more success than we have had. If peace is to come, it will be by their hands.”

“She is nothing like I expected her to be,” Gabranth admitted, watching the Princess. “She has something of her father and more, perhaps, of her uncle, but the rest...” Ashe had her father’s devotion and Ondore’s tactical mind, but there was a gentleness about her that some Archadian idiots no doubt would say was a fault of her sex, but Gabranth saw more as borne of her struggles.

“It is all her own,” Basch finished, and the brothers nodded. “The Ashelia I remember from before the fall of Dalmasca was...perhaps more frightened than the one I know now, but she has truly blossomed in adversity. Whatever Archadia did to tear her down, it has only made her stronger.” Basch looked proud, smiling at the Princess’ back. “She will be the finest Queen that the country has ever known.”

“You’re in love with her.” Gabranth blurted. It wasn’t a question. Basch looked down, flushed and guilty, sighed, and shrugged a shoulder as if to say _what did you expect_.

“Unrequited, as it must needs be.” Basch’s voice was low, almost afraid that if he went above a whisper, Ashe would hear and know. “Besides, is it not the fate of the guardian to fall in love with that they hold most dear? I love her as I do Dalmasca—her sands and storms are indeed fierce, but those she shelters she invites into her home like no other.” Basch sighed, besotted, and Gabranth had the sudden, almost unshakable urge to step on his foot. “Her father would be proud to see her now. _I_ am proud to see her now. I expected to return to Rabanastre to find her in an ignoble grave, and instead I emerged into the daylight to find her a monument to majesty.”

Gabranth’s mouth tasted like ash. His own deep anger at Basch for abandoning Landis and their mother aside, he had been pointlessly cruel to ruin his brother’s life as utterly as he had.

“For what it’s worth,” he murmured, “I am...truly sorry.”

“Apologise to Lady Ashe and Vaan, not me.” Basch huffed, and then, softened. “But I know now, all that happened 'twas not your fault. I could no more blame you for the past than Vaan blame me; you are not the one who should bear answer for the crime. Vayne has made a mockery of us all.” Gabranth wanted to cut Basch off, tell him that no, _he_ was the one at fault, but Larsa’s weight and breath in his ear softened the urge—and, for once, he did not want to yell at his brother. Wanted to just...be brothers, for but a moment.

They walked on the rest of the night in silence as the scenery turned from the Mosphoran hills into the wood of the Salika, and for once, Gabranth felt at home.

 

 

The Salikawood was as Gabranth remembered it—warm and humid, with deep shadows filtering down as green light through the canopy far above. The sound of animals in the undergrowth was soothing, and it was significantly easier to enjoy the humid warmth of the jungle after the blasting dry heat of Dalmasca, especially without his armour.

“You keep looking at Balthier,” Larsa said on their second afternoon in the forest, as the pirate up ahead came to a juncture in the planks of the path and looked around, confused. “Why?”

“I recognise him.” Gabranth replied, hefting Larsa a little further up on his back, the young man’s fingers curling into his shoulder. “I can’t place where, though.” He recognised Balthier’s voice more than anything, the accent clearly Archadian but trying _not_ to be. He had a face that reminded Gabranth of someone as well, although he could not figure out quite who.

“So,” Fran began, as Balthier figured out which way they were going, “Do you have a plan to get into Draklor?”

“I don’t know,” Balthier replied, hands on his hips as he walked, “Burn it down?” He paused and then added, “No, that’s probably not entirely a good idea—I’m almost certain it’s full of explosives.”

“Have you been there before?” Vaan was kicking the remains of the head of a pumpkin alraune as he walked, making it tumble along the planks. “You sure sound like it.”

“Sky pirates go all kinds of places,” Balthier sniffed. Gabranth narrowed his eyes. “But, yes,” Balthier admitted, awkwardly. “I have been to Draklor before.”

“How did a sky pirate get into Draklor?” Gabranth found himself asking, genuinely surprised. Balthier looked over at him, but did not meet his eyes. “Security on that place is a nightmare, even for high ranked Imperial officials.” Balthier shrugged.

“Well, you know, sky pirates, have to steal—“

“Nobody has broken into Draklor in over a decade,” Gabranth murmured, more to himself than anybody else. “But out...” he trailed off, and straightened, Larsa grabbing on tight to his shoulders as Gabranth finally figured out _where_ he recognised Balthier from. The hair, the sharp nose and strong jaw, distinctive half-upturned lips, and most notably that _voice_ , that prior to a few weeks before, Gabranth had last heard behind the faceplate of a Judge’s armour. A Judge in his ranks of officers, who had run off with an Imperial prototype ship.

He _thought_ he recognised the _Strahl_.

“Ffamran mied Bunansa!” Gabranth blurted in realisation, and Balthier jumped a half a foot straight up in the air, spinning around, his eyes so wide Gabranth could see the whites. “By hell, it is you!”

“Wait—“ Larsa sat up on Gabranth’s back, blinking, and then gasped in surprise as his mind made the same connection Gabranth’s had. “Really?”

“Who?” Vaan asked, blinking, looking back and forth between Gabranth and Balthier as the younger man sank down into his shoulders. “What are you talking about?”

Balthier swore, and it was so filthy Gabranth wished he had the hands free to cover Larsa’s ears. “How did you—how did you know?” Balthier finally asked, sputtering. “You never saw my face!”

“You have your father’s lips and hair,” Gabranth replied. “And your voice. Upper-class Archades accents aren’t _that_ easy to hide.” However, Balthier looked haunted by the reveal, and Gabranth hesitated. The entire rest of the group was staring at him. “They don’t know,” he said at last, and Balthier shook his head uncomfortably.

“Oh yes, Magister. Go ahead, tell them. I’m sure you’ll crow about having found the skeletons in my closet.”

“No.” He said it without thinking, and Balthier looked up at him. Larsa was still peering at him intently, curious. “It’s your story to tell, not mine.”

“What are you talking about?” Ashe huffed at last, crossing her arms. “Balthier, is there something we should know?”

“Not right now, Princess.” Balthier’s voice was bitter, but the expression on his face as he watched Gabranth was one of exhausted relief that Gabranth had not said any more than he already had. Fran’s hand was on his upper arm, squeezing his shoulder through the white cloth of his shirt. Balthier leaned back into her touch, like she was his rock in the storm—which, Gabranth considered, perhaps she was. “Soon enough; believe me.” He turned away and kept walking, shoulders hunched, while the party looked after him, and Gabranth stared, curious.

“This,” Larsa said, as delicately as possible, “Is going to get interesting.”

That was one way to put it.

 

 

It took them longer than anybody would have liked to get through the woods, mostly because of all the roundabout paths. By the time they had found the exit onto the Phon Coast, and then rounded up all the Moogles needed to finish building the last bridge out to the beach, it was mid-afternoon three days later, and Gabranth practically collapsed onto the planks of one of the paths, exhausted from hauling around wood for the Moogles.

“You seem like you regret mentioning you could help,” Fran pointed out, a smile in her voice, and if Gabranth hadn’t been so out of breath he would have snapped back. As it was, he just leaned back on his elbows and took deep breaths.

“I didn’t think they would need that much wood.” The Moogles had cut it already, and he understood the argument that they were too small to effectively move the logs they had, but _still_. It was some small consolation that Basch was as out of breath as he was—and it was a boon that the Moogles had been sharing food, which meant they’d had real food for a full day instead of trail rations.

One of the Moogles came over, bouncing slightly, and held out a wooden cup full of some kind of juice to Basch, who had been wiping off the back of his neck with a wet cloth, and nodded his thanks. The Moogle brought a second cup over to Gabranth, who murmured his thanks as well and took it. It was cool, and some kind of sweet berry, and he was immensely grateful for it.

“I’ve been wondering, kupo?” began the Moogle, looking back and forth between Gabranth and Basch, tapping his lower lip, one hand on his hip. Larsa, who was hobbling around carefully with Penelo and Vaan’s help, looked over. “Are you two...twins?”

Basch looked down at Gabranth where he was half-flat on his back on the ground, and Gabranth looked back at his brother. Neither of them said anything for a very long moment—long enough that even Balthier, who had been carefully cleaning his gun for an hour or more, looked up.

“No,” Basch said first, completely serious. “I’m not sure how you see that. Nobody has ever said we look alike.” He sipped his juice, the ball in Gabranth’s court, and he scoffed in return to his brother.

“Frankly,” Gabranth said, totally straight-faced, “I am personally insulted that you think I look _that_ bad. The day I look like Basch is the day I wear a helmet every day for the rest of my life.”

“You already do,” Basch replied, and Gabranth had a damn hard time hiding his grin.

“Oh!” The Moogle threw his arms in the air in surprise, looking between them. “I just—kupo! Sorry!” He took a few steps backward, still looking between Basch and Gabranth. “I just thought—“

“They’re lying,” Fran said, deadpan, and at the same time both brothers groaned.

The Moogle looked extremely offended. “Well,” the Moogle huffed, crossing his arms, “I never! See if I share juice with you again, kupo!”

“My apologies,” Basch said, and Gabranth sighed; let it stand for both of them. For a moment there, it had been like they were still young, before Landis fell, again. Back when it had felt like he did have a twin brother, and not...an old, raw wound, still weeping.

They were both silent for a long time, after that. Not that it could have lasted, though—it seemed everyone was well devoted to making Basch and Gabranth actually _work out_ their issues, even if Gabranth’s preferred method of sorting out his older issues with his brother was by punching him. Although...admittedly, he did feel less like punching Basch than he had even just a few weeks earlier.

It was about dinnertime, the last few touches going up on the gate and bridge over into the Phon Coast, that Penelo handed Gabranth a plate of greens and nuts, food she had harvested with the help of the Moogles. It had been her turn to make dinner, and (blessedly for them all) she had just mixed a salad instead of cooking.

“So...” Penelo said, folding her hands over her knees, twiddling her thumbs. “You and Basch, yeah?”

“Yes?” Gabranth replied, awkwardly holding the plate.

“I mean...you two really don’t look that much alike.” Basch looked up from what he was eating and looked over at Gabranth. “I mean; for identical twins.”

“It’s the hair,” Basch said, finishing his mouthful and gesturing at his head. “When he grew his out two years ago it was uncanny.”

“The beard doesn’t help, either,” Balthier leaned forward, gesturing at Basch’s chin with his fork. “Makes our good Captain look a few years older.”

“That’s true.” Penelo tapped her fork against her wooden bowl. “Your voices, though.”

“That’s accent, more than anything.” Gabranth finished his mouthful. “Basch has lived in Dalmasca nineteen years, and myself in Archadia. Common has developed quite differently in both countries, not to mention an upper-class Archades accent is all-but required for Imperial service at the level of Magister. In Landiser, we sound much more alike.”

“Is that what you spoke in Nalbina?” Larsa asked, looking up at Gabranth, who nodded.

“Aye. It’s our native tongue—we don’t retain the accents as much.” He had learned _that_ during Basch’s time in the Nalbina Dungeons.

“All right,” Penelo prompted, smiling. “Say something! I’ve never heard anyone speak Landiser before.”

“Well...” Gabranth hesitated, and then modulated his voice a little bit deeper, closer to Basch’s usual speaking tone than his own. “My name is Basch,” he said, Landiser rusty under his tongue, he used it so rarely. “I love sand, and Dalmasca. I think Princess Ashe is pretty and will never say anything—“ Basch shoved him so hard he almost dropped his food, and Gabranth cut off, nearly cackling with laughter as Basch glowered.

“What were you saying about me?” The Princess looked miffed, scowling, and Basch huffed.

“Nothing insulting, Your Highness. He was just trying to imitate me, and my...respect for you.” That was _one_ word for it, Gabranth thought. Basch looked at him, scowling. “It’s been two years and that is _really_ all you can think of that I would say?”

Gabranth hesitated for a moment. He had heard about Vaan’s attempted imitation of his brother in Bhujerba, and the opportunity was open…so, he raised his eyebrows and said, straight-faced in Archadian Common, “Well at least it’s better than ‘I’m Basch fon Ronsenburg of Dalmasca.’” Basch stared at him for a long moment, and then scowled, his jaw tight as Gabranth suppressed his laughter, even as the rest of the party poked fun, jabbing at Vaan.

Basch had never been one to let an opportunity lie. “My name is Noah,” he made his voice sharper, like Gabranth’s, and switched to Landiser. It was surreal hearing their native tongue in Basch’s voice. Or, well, in Basch’s voice trying to sound like his voice. “I love Archades, and I have dull taste in clothes. My swords are silly, and I never shut up about Lord Larsa.” If they hadn’t been in the midst of eating, and had not had yet between them a yawning gap, Gabranth would probably have responded by beginning a round of fisticuffs.

“My clothes aren’t dull,” Gabranth snapped, in Common again, and Basch raised his eyebrows, gestured at him with his fork.

“You are wearing all black and armour. That’s dull.”

“Your clothes are dull,” Gabranth shot back, although it had little heat in it.

“See, now even _I_ am curious.” Larsa tapped his chin. “Basch spoke of me, and Gabranth spoke of you, Lady Ashe. I wonder what it says that when they imitate each other, they speak of us?”

“We are very devoted to our duties,” Basch managed, freckled face flushed nearly the same colour as his shirt, and Gabranth pretended to be very interested in finishing his salad. “I assure the both of you it was all complimentary.”

“You did sound more alike.” Penelo seemed pleased. “You...do kind of both stink at pretending to be each other, though.”

“That is for the best,” Gabranth said, finishing his salad. “As I believe both of us would prefer to never have to swap places again.” It was a roundabout way of saying it, but Basch seemed to understand what Gabranth was saying. It was probably the most forthright he would ever be about it, but still.

Basch had damned Landis, and damned Gabranth and their mother with it, but Gabranth should never have let Vayne tie his hands into killing Raminas while wearing his brother’s face.

 

 

The following morning they emerged at last out of the edge of the Salika’s canopy and into the bright, blinding light reflecting off of the white sand of the Phon Coast. Gabranth had never been happier to breathe clear, sea air—after _this_ journey, he never wanted to get stuck in the humidity of a jungle ever again.

They moved slowly, Larsa walking on his own for the first time since he had broken his leg in the Highwaste, and as the ground turned from sand-mussed grass and wood to just sand, he shaded his eyes and looked out, over the wide blue ocean, the sun glinting off of the waves. The Dalmascans didn’t bother with a hand as a visor—no doubt because this beach was certainly no more glaring than were the deserts of Dalmasca. “This is beautiful,” Larsa said, stepping heavily in the sand, one hand stretched out to balance himself on Gabranth’s arm. “Why have we never been here?”

“Before the wars with Nabradia and Dalmasca, back when negotiations were peaceful and there were no angry displaced citizens wanting revenge, this used to be a popular vacation spot for noble families out of Archades.” Balthier stepped past, the sand under his feet whispering as it shifted. “I came a few times with my family.” He didn’t elaborate, although Gabranth could see the Princess and Vaan watching him carefully, trying to find answers. “I am actually surprised you never visited, Larsa.” Balthier looked back over at the young Lord, who shrugged.

“Father never really...vacationed,” he settled on at last. “If we went out of the city, even when I was a child, it was usually because my father had something concrete to do.” Gabranth bit back his desire to remind Larsa he was _still_ a child—although, perhaps, not for much longer.

“My father was the same way,” the Princess said, rolling her shoulders as she ducked down to scoop up some sand, running the grains through her fingers. “Whenever I left Rabanastre without any purpose, it was always Uncle Halim who took me.” She smiled, wistful. “Why, I remember a few times when he took me to Bhujerba without even asking my father for a by-your leave.”

Basch grunted. “Those were nightmares,” he had crossed his arms and scowled. “He would only ever take Vossler with him when he did so. Your father would be spitting fury by the time you all got back.”

“You Humes,” Fran laughed. “Your obsession with how and where to keep your children is odd.”

There was a brief ripple of laughter through the group at that, and then Gabranth froze—head turned upward, eyes narrowed. A low, thrumming hum, the tell-tale murmur of glossair engines. Without thinking, Gabranth grabbed Larsa and pulled him underneath a tree, the young man stumbling for a moment before he caught his balance against the trunk of the palm. “Tonberries!” he called, and the rest of the party crowded in close, as tight around the trunk as they could get.

Vaan stood on Larsa’s other side, one arm wrapped around the tree, and against his back pressed Balthier, squinting up through the leaves.

Eight went overhead, patrolling the edge of the border. They came up over the forest, and then vanished off around the curve of the beach and over the water. As the eight of them went over their tree, the Princess took in a quick, sharp breath.

None of them moved.

“It would seem,” Balthier said at last, arms crossed, “That we made the right choice.” He squinted up at the Tonberries as they flew out of sight. “If we’d taken the easy way and come by airship, one of those patrols would no doubt have been quick to roll out the red carpet.” He glanced at the Dalmascans, as they relaxed from around the palm tree. “We’re on the Empire’s doorstep now, so we shouldn’t have to worry _quite_ so much. But that’s no excuse to get sloppy.”

“It’s a long road to the capital,” Larsa said, still looking up after the Tonberries. “It sucks the beauty right out of everything, knowing they look for me.”

“They look for _all_ of us,” Ashe corrected, stepping back into the sunlight, her fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of the Sword of Kings. “You have no greater need to worry than the rest of us.” She paused, and then looked back at them. “Besides which, I think the last place Vayne will look for you and Gabranth is by the side of the Princess of Dalmasca.”

She was, of course, right. Larsa alone, perhaps, would obviously have gone with the Princess and her party once again—but with Gabranth in tow, they were hidden about as well as they ever could be. Nobody would have ever expected Gabranth to travel with his brother. 

“Fran,” Ashe was focused again, her free hand on her hip, “You said there was a hunter’s village?”

“About halfway to the Tchita Uplands. The Coast is not big, and should we keep good time, we shall make it by nightfall.” She was right—the Coast was long and narrow, with no winding paths and no deep sand to sink into. Making it to the Tchita Uplands in two days was a _little_ fast, but still easily possible.

“I suppose that means back up,” Larsa sounded sour as he said it, and Gabranth sighed as he gathered up the young man in his arms, carrying him bridal style for a bit instead of piggyback. “I shall only slow us down if I walk.” He was scowling. “I take back enjoying being tall; I can’t wait to be on my own two feet again.”

“You have plenty of this journey left to go,” Gabranth promised, as Larsa draped his arms about his neck. “Your feet will ache with blisters again soon enough.” He was looking forward to Larsa being able to walk again as well; as much as he had told his brother that it was no burden to carry the young Lord, his back was beginning to ache from the lopsided weight from the past week.

They made good time over the rest of the day, cutting down the monsters that wandered about the sands as they headed toward the hunter’s camp. They arrived just as the sun was beginning to set, the sands glowing with firelight that reflected off of the ocean whitecaps, lifted by the wind coming in off the open sea. The camp was small, not more than maybe twenty people wandering about the scant buildings, and now that there weren’t monsters every two feet, Vaan let out a wild whoop of delight and took off sprinting past the rest of the group, stripping as he ran.

“Race you to the water!” He shouted to Penelo, who took off after him, laughing and unzipping her jumpsuit as she went, dumping it to the sand.

“What?” Gabranth spluttered, as the two teenagers leapt stark naked into the water, laughing with pleasure, and stumbled slightly forward as Larsa pulled imperiously on the back of Gabranth’s neck.

“Gabranth,” Larsa said, pointing at the water, “Come on!” However, he was still staring at Vaan and Penelo, who seemed to have no concept of the inappropriateness of their nudity. “Swimming!” When Gabranth didn’t move, Larsa wiggled and slid out of his arms, dropping to the ground, before he too began to strip out of his road-dusted clothes.

“Lord Larsa,” Gabranth managed when he had found his voice again, still more than a little bit dumbfounded, “This is hardly appropriate!” Larsa was far too young to be leaping nude into the ocean with a girl. However, as he said it, Gabranth looked up to see his brother, naked as the day that they were both born, run right past. Fran was immediately after him, shaking out her long hair as she dove gracefully into the water, dark skin swallowed up by the ocean.

He put his hand over Larsa’s eyes without even thinking about it.

Basch hit the water with a wave that nearly toppled over both Rabanastrans, Vaan and Penelo shrieking in delight, and Gabranth only lifted his hand when it seemed none of them would be launching back out of the water anytime soon. “You are all a public nuisance!” Balthier called, even as Gabranth found Larsa tugging at his armour, staring at him with great, soulful blue eyes. “This is obscene! Why are Dalmascans always naked?”

“When you grow up in a desert,” Ashe pointed out, and Gabranth almost swore aloud in horror when he saw the Princess also beginning to strip, “You take every possible opportunity to get the sand out of your skin.” She almost tripped, struggling with her boots, and Balthier caught one of her elbows. “ _All_ of your skin.”

“Keep your shorts on, Lord Larsa, please,” Gabranth pleaded, and Larsa acquiesced before he went limp awkwardly to crash into the water headlong, Penelo catching him, both the children shrieking in delight. Gabranth’s ill humour about the entire situation evaporated as he stripped the rest of his armour off down to just his shorts, and he went to follow his charge to the water.

“A moment, Princess,” he heard Balthier say as he moved away, and Gabranth looked over his shoulder, saw Ashe pausing with one boot entirely off. “You and I need to talk.”

Balthier looked up at him, and Gabranth was struck by the resemblance between father and son—Balthier had Cid’s eyes, the quiet pain that tucked in at the corners. He had his father’s jaw as well; teeth-grit stubbornness down to the bone.

Gabranth left, because that was a sad history that he already knew, and had played an unwitting role in to boot. It would be hard enough for Balthier to say what needed to be said without Gabranth looming over his shoulder, an unwanted spectre of an all-too-living past.

 

 

The next morning, after Vaan had done several hunts, they set out toward the Tchita Uplands. For the following few days as they trekked toward Archades the Princess was unusually subdued, walking either ahead of or behind the party, Basch by her side. Balthier did not look her in the eye, and her sombre mood soured the rest of the Dalmascans as well, everyone on-edge despite not knowing exactly why she was so tense. They camped a final night in the Sochen Cave Palace, the sullen silence interminably heavy, until Balthier came over to the fire Fran had set to crackling and unfolded a map of the Empire.

For not the first time, Vaan looked concerned as he peered at the map. “You’re sure this rabbit hole leads into Archades?” Balthier sighed.

“Better a hare unseen than a rat in a trap. If you’d prefer to go knocking on the front gates of the city, be my guest.” Vaan looked even more concerned as he considered that possibility. “As it stands, I for one would rather not get nabbed by the first passing guard patrol. If we continue like this, we’ll reach Old Archades in the morning. Once we’re there, it should only be about an hour to get to the city proper, and we can make plans from there to get into Draklor.”

“Wait,” Vaan perked up, scooting closer to peer at the map. “If we’re that close, why don’t we just get there tonight?” Balthier sniffed.

“Because, Vaan, while I have no fear about any of us winning in a fair fight, I’m not about to try and walk into a hive of scum and villainy in the middle of the night. In that kind of situation there’s no way of avoiding a dagger in the ribs.” He paused, and glanced at Ashe and Larsa. “Even with our royalty stuck to their guard dogs like burrs, I shan’t be responsible for delivering Dalmasca a dead Queen, or for that matter, a dead Captain either.”

“Where is it exactly you’re taking us?” the Princess asked, suspicion in her voice, and Balthier sighed.

“Best you see it for yourself in the morning, Princess.” He folded up the map.

“Won’t the city watch find us?” Penelo asked, hands folded carefully in her lap.

“That’s the point,” Balthier groaned. “There _isn’t_ a city watch in Old Archades. Nobody could care less who we are or what we’re doing.” He actually looked somewhat hurt. “I _am_ a pirate; I would hope you all have a greater deal of faith in my ability to sneak in somewhere undetected.”

“Yeah, I’d believe that, except I saw you in Rabanastre—“ Vaan snickered, Balthier glowered, and Ashe cleared her throat with the patience of a saint.

“Even should the city watch by chance come across us, we’ll do what we can to blend into the crowd. Our names may be notorious, but our faces are not far known, excepting Larsa.” She hesitated. “And I am...sure we can come up with a plan for that.”

Gabranth had, frankly, been trying not to think about that.

“That’s true...you’re our Princess, and we didn’t even recognise you.” Ashe frowned at Vaan—and as per usual, he missed it utterly.

“I noticed.”

Balthier brought them back on track. “That is a bridge we’ll cross when we get there. Rabanastre has Lowtown, Archades has Old Archades. Every capital is the same. There’s dregs of humanity in all of them. My main priority is getting through Old Archades alive; disguises are a trivial matter that can come after.”

He was right, of course, but that didn’t make the anguish on Larsa’s face the following morning any less difficult to bear, and Gabranth kept his hand on _Highway Star_ ’s hilt from the moment they stepped out into the rancid air of Old Archades. Next to him, his brother did the same, the both of them standing on either side of Larsa and the Princess.

“Smells less like a capital and more like a sewer,” Vaan said first, nose wrinkled. Balthier sighed dramatically and pushed past him, but even the sky pirate wasn’t comfortable—he had a hand on the butt of his gun, and he kept glancing around, clearly on-edge.

“Vaan, need I remind you what Lowtown smells like?”

“Seriously,” Penelo shook her head at him. “Considering the amount of time you spent in the literal _sewers_ hunting rats, you haven’t got any room to talk.” Vaan looked put-out, but didn’t correct her as Balthier led them into the warren of streets that made up the city, the crumbling edifices of stacked-tall tenements blotting out the wan grey light of the morning sun, leaving them in the bile-soaked dark of the alleys and streets.

“Papers are required if you wish to live in Archades,” Fran explained as they walked, keeping just behind Balthier, even _her_ cool façade broken by a nervous hand on her quiver. If she had gotten stares in Rabanastre it was nothing compared to here—every person they passed gawked at her more than any other member of their motley crew. Many of them had probably never seen a Viera in the flesh. “The runoff pools here—the mighty who have fallen, the fallen who would be mighty.” She looked up, past the ramshackle buildings that crowded together, soot-stained and sagging, toward the invisible distant edifices of Archades proper. “Their eyes never leave Archades.”

“I guess it must be a lot nicer than this place.” Vaan said, looking in the same direction Fran was, up toward where Archades was hidden by the haphazard (certainly not up to building code) apartments.

“Archades reeks of a different filth.” Basch snarled, not looking at his brother. Gabranth took it as the well-deserved censure it was, and said nothing.

“Enough.” Balthier glanced back at all of them. “Drawing any more attention than we already are will only make this more difficult. We can follow our noses to Draklor—there’s a stench that reeks, even in here.”

They didn’t even bother trying to sneak into the city past the guards on the bridge. Larsa was a well-known face to everyone in the Imperial army, and there was no chance of bundling him past. Instead, with a scowl on his face that rivalled Gabranth’s own, Balthier led them to a crowded street corner, old neighbourhood gossips sitting side-by-side with pickpockets, displaced workers, and ragged children kicking about an old Imperial helmet (much dented and dirtied) as a ball, the metal clanking along the uneven cobblestones.

“I want to speak to them,” Larsa said, eyes hard. His voice brokered no compromise, so Gabranth sighed, glanced at the party.

“We’ll meet you later,” Balthier said, nodding to Gabranth before jerking his chin at Larsa. “Keep an eye on him.” Gabranth grunted—like he needed to be told that. He’d been keeping an eye on Larsa as long as the young man had lived; this was nothing new to him.

“These are my people,” Larsa whispered, his hands in tense fists. “More, even, than those in Archades proper. House Solidor has a responsibility to them, even if Vayne forgets it. It is because of the Empire’s excesses that they are forced to live in squalor. I may not be able to do anything for them now, but I can learn what to do in the future. I will not raise my rule upon the backs of other men.”

“Then you do better than every Emperor before you. We’ll be back. Don’t go too far.” Larsa nodded, and the rest of the party left with Balthier. Gabranth kept watch after them, fingers itching around the hilt of his sword, but Larsa seemed perfectly comfortable, joining in on the impromptu pseudo-game with the helmet, trying to learn the rules. For the entire time they had been on the road, from Bur-Omisace to here, Larsa had been putting on the face of the Imperial heir: he had done his best to hide the deep anguish the loss of his father had caused, but rarely even with Vaan and Penelo had he seemed his good-humoured even-keeled self. Now, chatting with the boys and girls that would make up the rank and file of his future nation, years of study and training for positions of leadership showed through—alongside the mien of a tremendously lonely child, who had found himself for the first time in a very long while with peers. Almost immediately, he was relaxing, laughing, and taking the lead in the group of children.

Gabranth leaned against one of the apartment walls, crossed his arms, and settled in for a comfortable wait. It turned out he didn’t have very long to be on guard duty while Larsa enjoyed himself, because soon enough Fran came around the corner looking annoyed. Gabranth straightened immediately and turned toward her, although he never took his eyes off of Larsa. “Has something happened?”

“Balthier has found us a way into the city,” Fran replied, tossing her hair, “Although our guttersnipe became curious. Fortunately, Vaan is no coeurl, and has not been killed by such nosing, and has gone off on an adventure to open to us Archades.” Gabranth blinked.

“Lovely,” he settled on at last. “Any idea of how long it might take?” Fran looked at him, and after a moment, shook her head. Gabranth sighed.

Well, at least Larsa was enjoying himself.

 

 

Whatever Vaan was doing, it ended up taking the better part of the afternoon, and by the time he was done, the rest of the group had gathered back up to share travel food out of Basch’s pack, hard-tac and thick cheese sliced off the rind with dried, salted fish from the hunter’s village. Gabranth found himself too anxious to eat most of his share and allowed Larsa to finish what he had started, and stayed crouched in the shade from an overhanging roof.

Like Balthier, he intentionally looked anywhere but at the man who had been kind enough (or, perhaps, cunning enough) to be their contact. The tension was thick enough for the both of them that you could have cut it with a knife, although none of the Dalmascans seemed to notice. Then again, only the Princess knew even a part of the truth that Balthier had been hiding—and no wonder, too. Somehow, Gabranth had a feeling that any reunion between father and son would not be one couched in displays of affection.

It was into this tableau that Vaan came running, mouth stuffed full of his share of the food like some kind of a rodent. Jules, who had been sitting relaxed and comfortable on a pile of crates, sat up with a pleased smile, scratching at his chest hair as Vaan jogged over, looking pleased, if confused. “You told him just as I told you?” Jules asked, eyebrows cocked. Vaan nodded emphatically, and then paused to take a moment to chew. “Good boy.”

Balthier looked for a moment like the concept of Jules calling Vaan _good boy_ was personally offensive to him.

“I’m not sure what any of this has to do with going _up_ in the world.” Vaan said, rubbing the back of his neck, looking at Balthier for some explanation, although the sky pirate was resolutely looking anywhere but at him at that particular moment.

“Oh?” Jules laughed. “Witness the power of knowledge, m’boy.” At that moment, a few of the citizens of Old Archades came running through their alley, and Jules spread his hands. “See? It begins.”

“’ey, ‘tis a fight! Beasley’s gone wild!” One man shouted it, and within moments, the news was spreading from person to person, flung out of tenement windows and carried by excited children. In a place like Old Archades, a fight was high entertainment, and people came rushing past to go see, Fran gently pulling Penelo and Vaan into a cluster to get them out of the way, Ashe craning her neck past Basch’s protective shoulder to try and get a look at what was going on. It was only a matter of minutes before the guards arrived, clanking past their group, hands on their swords.

At the same instant, both Gabranth and Larsa turned their faces, using their companions as a shield to hide behind. None of the guards stopped, and Gabranth gave a quiet sigh of relief. These were city guardsmen, and not any of his own personal forces, but there was always the faintest possibility. If he was caught, everything they had done was forfeit, although escape for the Princess and her entourage was still possible—if _Larsa_ was caught, it was the noose for them all.

“Now’s our chance!” Vaan said, sotto voce. “Thanks, Jules!” Before any of them could say anything Vaan took off like a shot, taking quick advantage of their window of opportunity to sneak into the city unnoticed. Penelo, Fran, Basch, and Ashe followed afterward, but Balthier lingered—as did Gabranth, who had a few questions of his own. Larsa, who knew better than to tempt fate’s ire, stayed by his side.

“Never thought you’d go for such a meagre price,” Balthier said, adjusting his cuffs as if to show how little he cared (although it was a bad bluff, even for him).

“A pirate should know that words are worth gil uncountable.” Jules shrugged. “Here’s some words for you and your grim-faced companion with his charge.” Gabranth bristled instantly, and it was only one of Larsa’s slim hands against his wrist that kept him from drawing his blade. “The prodigal Bunansa’s son come back to the Imperial roost, and with him, a turncoat Magister and his Master, the much-missed and muchso missing heir.” Jules’ smile in that moment was all teeth, and when _Highway Star_ creaked against his swordbelt, Larsa tightened both his jaw and his fingers until they were both white-jointed to keep Gabranth from drawing steel. “See? Words of much value, these.”

For a moment, all three of them were silent, and then Balthier spat, “Bah.” He stormed off, ill-humoured, and Gabranth hesitated a moment longer, eyes narrowed at Jules. The streetear grinned at him, and winked.

“You might want to disguise the young lord,” Jules said, nodding at Larsa. “His face is not one unknown to the people of Archades. You, without most of your armour, can slip by unannounced. If you don’t want to get arrested on sight and dragged before Vayne, you’d best come up with a better plan than to turn your faces whenever the guards pass.”

Larsa preempted Gabranth by shoving his hand back, hard, and forcing his sword right back into where it was sheathed. Gabranth could hear his jaw creaking his teeth were so tight-grit.

“You have my thanks,” Larsa said, at his most diplomatic. “I had thought something of that nature would be required. Might you have a suggestion for the best way to handle it?”

“A dress and sandals, perhaps, and some bows for the hair. A bit of blush on your cheeks with it and you’d be given not a second thought.” Jules shrugged. “Best do it quick, before your window of opportunity is slammed unceremoniously shut. I’d hate to see your fingers get caught in it, my Lord.”

“It shall be done.” Larsa smiled, and Gabranth for the life of him could not tell whether or not it was truly genuine. Knowing Larsa, there was more than a chance that it was. Then, Larsa bowed graciously and pulled Gabranth along, Jules watching them with narrowed eyes until they had made a turn around a building and he had vanished into the warren of badly-paved streets that were the thoroughfares of the undercity.

 

 

They managed to get across the bridge to Archades proper without any more difficulty, and arrived in the city to gasps of awe from Vaan and Penelo, who had never seen its like. Indeed, Gabranth felt something inside him yearning as well; no wonder the Dalmascans found themselves flabbergasted, for indeed there was nothing of the like to rival Archades in the world. Even Rozarria had no cities that were quite its match. Archades was _home_ , to him, more than even Landis had been, and this was a bittersweet homecoming if anything.

Next to him, Larsa had stopped, blue eyes unreadable as he stared up past the towering façades that rose around him, to the even higher peaks reached by the Imperial buildings. From here, they could see only the spires of one or two if anything at all, but Gabranth knew with deep certainty that Larsa was staring toward the chambers that had, until recently, been his fathers—now occupied by his patricidal brother. Larsa’s hands were fists at his side, and his normally smooth, gentle face was twisted for just a moment with an expression of absolute, incandescent rage. “I _will_ get my answers,” Larsa whispered, the words like blades falling from his lips, “Even if it must needs be in blood and bone.”

Gabranth knew better than to attempt to sway him, and simply set a supportive hand on the young Lord’s shoulder.

“You’re gawping like a fish out of water!” Penelo laughed ahead, and Larsa shook himself out of his moment of anger, smoothing himself back into a calm and untroubled lake, following his friends.

“I’m just checking out the city.” Vaan looked around intensely—the boy didn’t let a single chance to pick something up pass him by. With the Moogles he had learned building techniques, had picked up hunting and tracking skills from the hunter’s village, had learned from locals the intricacies of the maps of the jungles and the coasts. Fran was teaching him to read and write, the Princess was teaching him courtly manners, Balthier it seemed would no doubt soon teach him to fly the _Strahl_ —there was no _end_ to the boy’s boundless curiosity. He was the one perhaps benefitting the most from this ill-fated expedition, for when all was said and done he would no doubt return to Dalmasca one of the most well-travelled, well-educated men of his age. “Even if it _is_ the Empire,” Vaan added after a moment as a streetcar flew overhead, the engines throwing up dust with their glossair whine.

“We should try and find a place to get Lord Larsa a disguise as soon as possible,” Gabranth put in, stepping forward to take a deep breath of Archades air, his chest clenching almost painfully with the feeling of _home_. _Home_ , but with the title of traitor branded to his back, his loyalty to a boy destroying all that he had done for his country in one single move.

“Surely here we can take some time to look around,” Larsa replied, as Vaan and Penelo wandered off to look further into the city and the rest of their companions milled between the two pairs. “Rarely have I been down this far into Archades.”

“I’d rather not risk it, if it’s all the same to you, my Lord.”

“And here we are in the capital!” Penelo’s voice interrupted their conversation, Gabranth looking up at the teenagers talking. They had absolutely _no_ sense of an indoor voice—which was a failure he blamed not on Dalmasca, but simply on the nature of being a teenager.

“I know!” Vaan laughed. “It’s a little over my head sometimes.” Basch, walking up behind him, barked a laugh as well and clapped the young man on the shoulder, coming to stand beside him and look into Archades.

“Good, Vaan. You’ve come to understand the difficulties of serving royalty.” The Princess, walking just behind him, looked _scandalised_ , and Larsa snickered.

“Hey, I’m just along for the ride.” Vaan shrugged, but Penelo was staring at the Captain with the most peculiar look on her face, half amusement and half horror, her mouth part open in a smile. Vaan, oblivious to a fault, had missed the true meaning of Basch’s words. Penelo had done no such thing.

“That wasn’t a _complaint_ ,” she said, hardly believing what she herself was saying, “Was it, Basch?” It was at that moment that the implications of his words seemed to sink into Gabranth’s brother, his expression morphing into one of regret, mouth twisting into a frown. Ashelia very slowly crossed her arms as Basch cleared his throat, Fran and Balthier looking on in deep amusement, and Penelo swung her head toward Gabranth, the humour overtaking the confusion on her face. “Was that a complaint, Gabranth? That sounded like a complaint.” As if _Gabranth_ was the final authority on any of the nonsense that came out of his brother’s mouth.

“I wouldn’t know,” he replied, completely straight-faced. “Lord Larsa is as good a master as a man could hope to have. I wouldn’t know what a complaint about royalty was if I saw it.”

“ _Gabranth_ ,” Larsa whispered, still snickering, and Basch snuck a look at the Princess, who was glowering at him with such force that, frankly, Gabranth almost felt sorry for his brother—a feeling he’d never again expected to have. He had certainly earned her ire with that one.

“Right,” Basch finally managed, quailing under her glare. “Let’s get moving.”

 

 

Soon into their traipsing about the city Balthier ran off to do...something, although he did not clarify what, and the rest of them stayed together in a group. “It’s terribly easy to get separated in Archades,” Larsa explained, as they looked for a boutique to find something to disguise him with. “The crowds, not to mention the public transit, makes it difficult to get anywhere, let alone with a group. Should we split up with you all not knowing your way about the city, chances are, we should never find you again.”

“What about Balthier?” Penelo asked, looking back in the direction the pirate had left them. The Princess made a quiet noise.

“Something tells me he’ll be fine. We should just let him be.” Vaan and Penelo shared a distrustful look, but didn’t outright dispute the Princess’ words. They were smart young adults; they knew when there was something being kept from them, and both clearly itched to know _what_. They also, apparently, knew better than to push.

Soon enough they found a shop, and Gabranth and Basch stood awkwardly amongst the clothes, looking more out of place with each passing minute, as Penelo and Ashe (with a good bit of enthusiastic advice from Vaan) picked something out for Larsa, which he put on in a changing room. He emerged a few minutes later and handed Gabranth his usual clothes for safekeeping, and then they paid and left. In the light and air of the city, they found a bench and Larsa sat very still as Penelo braided his hair and tied it up into two tails with her own usual feathers, her blonde locks waving about her face, and then Vaan stuck his tongue out and braided her hair back up into a single braid, which he tied with a bit of string.

“Here,” Ashe said, sitting down next to Larsa, reaching into her pack to pull out a single brush of dark kohl and a bit of lip paint. They were both old and worn, the pot the brush was dipped into left almost empty, and the lip paint as well. They had clearly been used, and used again, until there was naught left. Gabranth felt a hot sting of shame: here were the paints that the Princess had used in another lifetime, the bottles and quality clearly high. Here was what he had robbed her of, when he had killed her father. The simple desires of a young woman, now held up by what few personal effects she had taken with her when fleeing the palace.

“I used to have blush, but I went through that years ago,” Ashelia said, filling space as she first inked the brush and carefully outlined Larsa’s eyes. “People always wanted to see proof that the Princess still lived...not that some common gutter rat was impersonating her. Don’t blink.” Larsa did as instructed, holding very still until she’d finished and had switched to his lips. “This should do the rest of the job. It always did make me look like something more.” The Princess finished, and Larsa tested his lips, blinking a few times before he looked to Gabranth.

“Well?” The young Lord asked, and Gabranth found himself unsure of how to respond. They had found him a modest dress, down to just below his knees, and comfortable sandals. His hair was a little too wispy to believably make the tails work, but they managed, and the paint feminised his face in a way that the clothing didn’t, making his lips seem fuller and bringing out the incredible blue of his eyes. Gabranth found himself pegged by those eyes, unable to look away—Larsa’s gaze was normally piercing, but this was a whole other level. He felt as if the boy could have skinned him alive if he’d had a mind for it, and Gabranth would not have minded in the slightest.“Does it pass muster, Judge Magister?”

“My Lord, at a cursory glance you remain yourself, but anyone who investigates further would not recognise you unless they knew you _very_ well.” Larsa seemed pleased with his evaluation, and hopped to his feet, dusting off his hands and his skirts.

“Then we’d best be off then.” It was a good thing that his voice was only beginning to crack; Solidors had deep voices. He could be given away in such a disguise in only a few more years time. Larsa glanced at Fran, who had given no hand in the proceedings—almost all Viera seemed to be what humes considered female, and she seemed to not really understand the effort gone to to make Larsa look so much unlike himself. Like many things human, Fran often had very little to do or say in the matter. “Fran, is there anything we need to purchase while we’re here?”

“I have a list,” she replied, and let Larsa lead the way between shops, picking up a few things here and there. Inevitably, as seemed so often the case, Gabranth and Basch ended up carrying most of it until it could be properly sorted, and by the time they reached the streetcar over to Tsenoble, Gabranth had several bags of magicks, items, and what felt like over a hundred potions, as well as other assorted sundries. Basch had fared no better—his brother was sagging under an armload of weapons.

“Want to trade?” Gabranth asked his brother, shifting idly from foot to foot as the rest of their company checked their list against the purchases they’d made.

“No thanks,” Basch replied, a little out of breath as he stared at Gabranth awkwardly using his chin to keep ahold of what he was pretty sure was a handful of smelling salts—currently, inconveniently, stashed directly under his nose. It was making it extremely difficult to not sneeze. “At least I know nothing I’ve got is fragile.” It was all mostly ammo and other assorted actual metal weapons. “When you sneeze and break all of that—“

“Don’t even _joke_ about that,” Gabranth snarled back, wincing as the first things on his pile started to get unloaded. “Next time, I’m making sure you have to hold the Phoenix Downs in your mouth.”

“What, and get feathers stuck in my teeth?”

“You heard me,” Gabranth was halfway through snapping, when he noticed that they had essentially been left alone. Lowering his arms slightly to try and see more clearly over his load, he realised that they had been abandoned for the streetcar, where a conversation had ensued.

“A chop? What’s that?” Vaan asked, and Larsa flushed in annoyance—neither he nor Gabranth had ever had any need for such things, given their relative positions in the empire.

The cab attendant apparently had no time or energy to explain the system to out-of-towners, and simply ran over Vaan’s question as if it had never been asked. Just as things were beginning to get heated, Gabranth glanced to the side to see Jules sauntering up, looking important and full of himself.

“Having a spot of trouble, are we?” Jules asked, interrupting the conversation and causing everyone else, including Basch from underneath where a sheathed axe was starting to slip awkwardly on top of his head, to crane their necks to look at him. “I’ve a message from Master Balthier.” the man continued, clarifying the reason for his sudden arrival. “He’s waiting in Central. He says to come quickly.”

“Why do I not like the sound of that,” the Princess said under her breath, a sentiment with which Gabranth wholeheartedly agreed.

“On this?” Vaan asked, gesturing at the cab, and Jules shrugged as if to say, _where else?_ “But we need a...a chop. What is a chop, anyway?”

“When a boy wants information...that’s right, a boy pays.”

“Nonsense,” Gabranth growled, cutting Jules off before he could get to trying to fleece Vaan. “Vaan,” he raised his voice to be heard over the pile of purchases in his arms, “A chop is what you might consider the cultural currency in Archades. Any citizen of the city proper, and often of the Empire as a whole, carries one. The more that you have, the more a mark of status they are—they’re also used as a writ of transit, easily obtainable to a layperson.” Vaan blinked.

“Like...identity papers?” He asked after a moment, and Gabranth nodded.

“Essentially.”

“Why didn’t you just _say_ that,” the teen pouted. “That was a lot of junk to just say we need them so we can ride the dumb streetcar.” Gabranth sighed out his nose.

“Balthier is waiting for us in Central, or Tsenoble. It’s nine chops to take the car there, in order to keep out the riff-raff.” Jules looked murderous at Gabranth having now cut off the entirety of the information he’d been planning to get paid for, but Gabranth just stared at the man completely straight-faced. There might be no love lost between him and the Dalmascans, but he _was_ a Judge Magister. He had a responsibility to police law in the Empire, even if he was now disgraced from his position. Cheating tourists out of their money was just cruel; he could at least be useful for that much.

“How do you get them?” Vaan asked, still looking at Gabranth, who was forced look chagrined. Here was a question that defeated his knowledge: he knew the general way one earned chops, but not the specifics from day to day.

Looked like Jules would, indeed, be fleecing tourists on this day.

“I...don’t actually know that.” He sighed, ruefully. Usually his distinctive fullplate made way for him where others would have been forced to carry a chop. He’d never gone to the trouble of getting a set. Larsa, he knew, had used one now and again, but it hadn’t been his own chops. The boy had ever been good at slipping his minders, and taking with him the very method of escape he intended to make use of.

“Well you’re no use,” Vaan huffed at Gabranth, who attempted to open his mouth to stand up for himself, only to click it shut again when Vaan ignored him and looked back to Jules. “The boy will pay, I guess. How much’ll it be?”

“2500 gil,” Jules replied without a moment’s hesitation, with Vaan paying up before Gabranth could caution him against it. The streetear counted out his gil, and then spread his arms genially, like he was the font of all knowledge. “Like I’ve said, the key is knowledge, boy. You do your part here on the street, talk to the right people, you’ll earn your chops in no time.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Vaan said, even as Larsa murmured,

“That wasn’t particularly helpful...”

“Oh,” Jules continued, as if they hadn’t interrupted, “People in Archades love doing good deeds. Why, if they’re helping you out, it must mean they’re superior. Understand, boy?”

Vaan blinked. “Uh,” he began, looking to Larsa for some kind of confirmation, relying on the young Lord as his Archadian guide with Balthier gone, “Not sure I do, but I’ll give it a try. Thanks, Jules!”

“A friend of Master Balthier’s is a friend of mine,” Jules replied, and there was something about the way that he said _friend_ that left an ill taste in Gabranth’s mouth. Coupled with the way he cleared his throat and the fact that Fran stared at him with a look that could peel paint, it clearly wasn’t what he’d been meant to be saying. _Friend_ was definitely one way to put what Balthier and Vaan were probably up to.

With Jules’ unhelpful instructions, it took Vaan, Penelo, with Larsa tagging along at their heels, the better part of an hour to scrape together the chops for it. Luckily, since they were a group, they’d only need the one set, and while the three teenagers ran back and forth across Archades, getting out their energy, Gabranth grudgingly found himself admitting that at the moment Vaan and Penelo could be trusted guardians, and stayed with the adults as they sorted out their purchases.

“Princess,” Gabranth began, after they’d placed all of their disposable goods into piles according to who would carry them and reacquainted people with new weapons. Ashelia took a moment to straighten and then looked at him like he was nothing more than something she would have scraped off of the sole of her boot. It was truly impressive how one brother she looked at as if he brought the dawn, and the other as the scum of the earth.

“Yes?” she replied, nose wrinkled. Gabranth ground his teeth, but took her disgraceful handling as no less than his due. “Do you have something you need to discuss, Jud—Gabranth?”

“Earlier you spoke of how you had lost your paints through the years. I can understand the responsibilities of the armour of state, Lady Ashe. Perhaps it is not plate armour, but the purpose is the same.” Gabranth held out his one and only purchase from earlier: a palette of paints, blush for the cheeks, and kohl for the eyes. It hadn’t been cheap, but he had written off the expense to himself as a transaction for the state. He'd pay it back out of Imperial coffers, if he ever had the chance to. “It is my fault you have lost simple luxuries. Please, take it.”

There was something painful about the corner of Ashe’s mouth. She hesitated, for a time, before she took the gift. She opened it and looked inside, like a child afraid of whether or not a present was truly for her, almost afraid he would rip it back and show her cruelty as he had in the past. Gabranth had expected her to dash the gift out of his hand and let it fall unused to the ground, then beat him about the head verbally until he felt wrung-out and sore. Instead, Ashe was staring at him like she had never truly seen him before that moment.

“Thank you,” the Princess said at last, holding the palette to her chest with gentility. “That was very kind of you.” Basch was staring at him too, from behind her shoulder, although with significantly less awe and significantly more hostility.

“You’ll need it, I am sure,” Gabranth finally settled on, and then made an excuse to go find the children in order to run, rather than face the possibility that he had begun to apologise for murdering a girl’s father and the ruination of her country simply by remembering words that had been poised and hung at the level of his heart, meant to hurt him, and in return showing kindness instead of his usual abrasiveness. Such an apology would never feel like enough to him. He did not think _any_ apology would ever feel like enough, not until Ashe had sundered his soul from his body the way he had to her once before.

Once Vaan, Penelo, and Larsa had been rounded up, along with their chops, it was a matter of ease to enter into the streetcar, Gabranth placing himself strategically in the centre of the aisle to keep the car from wobbling side to side. During the ride, Larsa pressed up against the glass, along with literally all of their companions, and pointed out major sites around the city as they went past. Even Basch and Fran looked interested in what he had to say, and it was only when they stopped that the party disentangled themselves.

“My last time in Archades, the intent was not to sightsee,” Fran said, as they disembarked. “I thank you; there is beauty here, so different from the wood.”

“Coated in venom, yes,” Larsa admitted, always the first to face the poorer sides of Archadian society. “The architecture is truly beautiful, though.”

“I wish I could have come here when I was younger.” Ashe said wistfully as they walked up the pier, still hugging Gabranth’s gift to her chest, as she had nowhere else to put it. “Bittersweetness shall taint it forever.”

“As is your due.” Larsa set a hand on her shoulder. “Lady Ashe, nobody lays blame for you hating this city at your feet. I think it is a sign of just how truly kind your nature is, that you are willing to forgive long enough to see the beauty in a place.”

“There is beauty in a viper as it sinks deadly fangs into your leg,” Basch put in, pragmatic almost to a fault. “That does not mean one should be enamoured of it.” Before anybody could start a fight, though, Balthier came down the steps ahead of them, throwing one arm casually around Vaan’s shoulder like it was second nature. True to form, Vaan didn’t notice anything wrong with it, and leaned comfortably against Balthier like he belonged there.

“Ah, here’s my wayward band of merry men.” Balthier’s eyes were narrow and worried, but his lips were an easy smile. “So pleased you could join me. Jules had a morsel for us that I’ve just been following up on: a light airship used by the Draklor researchers is just up ahead. If all goes according to plan, we’ll take that and go in through the service entrance. Let’s make haste, shall we?”

“Aww,” Vaan whined, and Penelo put in, “Are you sure there isn’t time to look around?” Larsa, ever the diplomat of compromise, took their hands and smiled.

“Well, then, we shall have to invite you back when all is said and done. I shall give you both a personal tour of the entire Tsenoble district, as well as the palace.” Penelo and Vaan both brightened considerably at this suggestion, apparently assuaged.

 

 

Tsenoble was crawling with Imperial soldiers, to the point that when they walked past a hat stand Basch grabbed a pair of floppy-brimmed sunhats and paid for both, plonking one on Gabranth’s head and the other on his own. They walked in a group, nervous, the energy going from relaxed to razor-sharp as quickly as breathing. Every once in a while a contingent of soldiers ran past, until they could no longer ignore the unusual number of Imperial guards swarming all over the streets.

“Do you think they’re onto us?” Vaan asked, glancing at Balthier as they walked. The pirate looked unamused, but not worried. It was not yet bad enough that these soldiers had roused him to fear.

“It would seem not, though this will make our task more difficult still.” Basch looked troubled, and Gabranth shared his brother’s unspoken worry. Something was _definitely_ wrong. He kept wishing for his plate armour, for the anonymity it lent him, because he knew his consternation was writ plain across his face. He was not used to schooling his expression quite so well as Lord Larsa: usually he had a helm to do it for him. Basch looked to him for a moment. “Noah?”

He had to intentionally force his reaction down, pretend the offhanded way in which his brother had looked to him for reassurance hadn’t opened up a yawning pit beneath his feet. “I know not,” Gabranth found himself admitting after a moment, running his fingers through his hair as he thought. “But I do know that this is not only ill-timed, it is ill-placed as well. It sits wrong with me. You may rest with some ease; they don’t know we’re here, of that much I am certain. These aren’t the formations they would be using if they were searching passersby.”

“No,” Larsa agreed with him, shaking his head. “We would know if they were looking for us. Whatever is going on, it is certainly my brother’s _fault_ if not his doing, and a disaster at the very best. However, all we can do is stay out of their way.” The young Lord looked worried, and he rubbed his upper arm where the dress bared it. “I worry for what the implications of this are. I do hope he hasn’t done anything foolish.”

“Knowing Vayne,” Ashe snarled, “He has.”

“Anyway,” Balthier continued as they walked toward where he had apparently hidden the ship, all of them pretending to just be regular tourists and not anything more suspicious, even if taking their time was nerve-wracking, “You lot certainly took your time getting here, didn’t you. Off seeing the sights, perhaps?” Balthier glanced toward Larsa. “I daresay there is probably no better tour guide in the city.”

“I have a great deal of affection for the city,” Larsa returned archly, although he did soften when he added, “I only wish Vayne understood more what it is that makes it, and our country, so great.”

Vaan, who Gabranth had long-since pinned as the heart of this varied group, the glue that held them together when the Princess’ brittle temper snapped, diffused the situation with the gentle ease that came of not knowing that there was tension in the air. “Not likely.” The boy snorted. “Do you know how long it took to get the chops to get up here? Even with me, Penelo, and Larsa working together?”

“What’s that? But I gave Jules some chops...” Balthier looked consternated, and then looked to Gabranth and Larsa. “Don’t you two have your own sets?”

“No; I have borrowed sets in the past but carry none with me.” Larsa so rarely travelled in the streetcars, and never with the permission of any of his guards.

“Would you request chops from a Judge Magister?” Gabranth arched his eyebrows, and Balthier stared at him for a moment before pursing his lips. “I’ve previously had no need for them, not for a great many years.”

“Usually he just looms and the cab attendant quails and lets him on.” Gabranth scowled, but could not contest Larsa’s words as being truthful. He _did_ usually just loom.

Vaan had seemed to finally come around to the fact that he’d been tricked into doing the streetear’s work for him, and a flush marred the tan arcs of his cheekbones. “Jules!” He growled—and then, as if to speak of the devil, the man himself sauntered out of a nearby alleyway, grinning.

Balthier groaned.

“A squad of Judges has been sent to Draklor. You’ll find the service entrance rather a difficult proposition, I’m afraid.” Gabranth had half a mind to shoot the messenger.

“Your doing, no doubt.” Balthier was glaring, and Vaan opened his mouth to say something, only for Fran to set a hand on the pirate’s shoulder when his fingers twitched for the pistol hanging from his belt. “You knew how the Ministry of Law would move, so you had Vaan out collecting chops until the Judges could reinforce Draklor. Of course...” Then, with bile on his lips, Balthier spun to face Jules.

For the first time all day, the streetear looked _scared_.

“Tell me,” Balthier spat, eyes blazing, even Fran’s hand on his shoulder not truly enough to hold him back if he had a mind for it, “How much did the Ministry pay for word of the prodigal son?”

“The—what?” Vaan whispered, not wanting to get between the two men, and the Princess hissed in reply, “I’ll define it later.”

“The Ministry?” Jules laughed, still wrong-footed, still frightened of the malice on Balthier’s face. “Oh, Judges make poor customers, my friend. Too many rules, too many laws. Perhaps you didn’t know, Master Balthier, that Draklor is a toy box these days, filled with your Lord Father’s conceits.”

And there it was; the duplicity laid bare for all eyes to look on. The four of them that knew were unsurprised, but Penelo took in a quick sharp breath, looking to Fran for confirmation. The Viera nodded slowly, and dug her fingers in harder to Balthier’s shoulder, her nails marring the linen of his shirt. Vaan boggled, and Basch’s face got hard and stony. It could not remain a secret forever. Surely, Balthier had known this—by the time they left Draklor, all would know. But to have it ripped from him before he was able to reveal it, _that_ was a humiliation. Like tearing a scab off of a half-healed wound, now the puss oozed for all to see.

Jules continued as if he had not just taken all Balthier had built for himself and crushed it beneath his bootheel in one simple phrase. “All developed without the Senate’s knowledge, of course. Why, not even the Emperor knew the full extent of Dr. Cid’s operations. Now, here’s the catch: since Vayne had himself declared dictator, nary a peep has come out of that laboratory.” He laughed. “I know people who would sell their own mum for the merest _scrap_ of information about the goings-on inside Draklor.”

Jules’ words had apparently managed to smother some of Balthier’s rage, because he no longer looked like he was going to break free of Fran’s grasp and clobber the man about the head. “People like Rozarrian sympathisers worried about the Empire’s weapons programs, and anyone else who might be opposed to the House Solidor hegemony. So, now you have _us_ create your disturbance and _you_ get your windfall of dirt on Draklor.” If anybody understood the nitty-gritty of intelligence, it was a pirate. It was how Gabranth would have had any of his own agents handle this sort of situation. Give the clients what they want, but you always come out on top.

“And, in exchange for your service, I’ve spoken to a cabbie. When he asks where you want to go, tell him: “You know where to go.” Simple, no?” Almost _too_ simple.

Balthier laughed, pained, and shook his head. If this was what he had left behind in Archades, frankly, Gabranth could not blame the man for running. “A deal, brokered in true Archades fashion. Why, it’s just like old times, Jules. Brings a tear to my eye.” His sarcasm was so scathing that it was going to leave marks.

“Good to be back, eh?” Balthier scowled. “My regards to your lord father, Master Ffamran.” And then, when Jules’ slip twisted Balthier’s face into an absolute rictus of rage, Fran put her other hand on his shoulder and pressed down, and Vaan pulled Balthier’s fingers from around the butt of his gun. “Rather,” Jules amended, “Master Balthier.”

They all-but-dragged Balthier away after that, Larsa taking the lead as their guide back through Tsenoble toward the cab station, pointing out sights to Penelo as they walked. Vaan spoke with Balthier in hushed tones at the back of their group, Fran walking beside her companion, one arm wrapped unusually tight around his shoulders: a startling display of her affection for the Hume she called her partner. Ashe walked just behind Larsa, Basch beside her, and after a time his brother cleared his throat.

“You knew?”

He nodded. “Since the Salikawood.” Gabranth dared a glance back at Balthier to see if the man was listening, but he was caught up in his own conversation explaining to Vaan, no doubt. “He was under my command briefly when his father forced him to become a Judge. He was miserable at it.”

“I’m unsurprised.” Basch’s jaw was tight. “Is he anything like the father?”

“As alike as Vayne and Larsa, although there is a family resemblance, in the jaw and the eyes.” Gabranth sighed. “He is not like to turn on your Princess and become some madcap scientist, Basch. He hates what his father has become.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Basch asked abruptly, turning guarded eyes toward his brother. “You usually revel in raw wounds and open secrets. I’m surprised you didn’t gleefully bare his hurt for the world to see, tell us all the damage between father and son.”

“Think whatever you may about my treatment of you,” Gabranth snapped back, baring his teeth at his twin, “But I take no pleasure in forcing bile to the surface. Knowing what I do of Doctor Cid, I cannot find fault in Balthier for running and turning pirate. No doubt it was a better fate than whatever his father would have had in mind. Slander me all you want, Basch, but I’m neither a coward nor a despot.” He was seething because Basch was _right_ —Gabranth would have ripped Balthier’s life to shreds just for the sake of knowing he had been right had he not been tipped from the scales of his old life and tumbled headlong into this new one, dragged after Larsa in the young man’s wake. Basch seemed to know it as well, and he set his jaw hard and glared.

Gabranth did what he did best: he ran.

He hurried his steps to join Larsa and Penelo in the front, and did not dare look back at his brother again.

 

 

In the cab, Larsa changed back out of the dress, and scrubbed the paints from his face. They equipped in silence, anxiety gripping the party with the threat of the unknown, and Balthier’s usual humour utterly lost as he sat in the corner, a stormcloud upon his shoulders. However, once they arrived, between Balthier’s memory for the Laboratory—he had, after all, grown up within its walls—and Gabranth’s own fairly recent visits to navigate the ever-changing corridors, they made good time. Despite that, there truly _was_ something afoot. The silence left all of them on edge, and nobody walked with their weapons sheathed. Gabranth stayed half a step before Larsa, and Basch did the same with the Princess; as ever, their minds were on that closest to their hearts. Even Balthier kept a wary eye on Vaan.

It was when they turned a corridor to a hallway full of dead Archadian soldiers that someone took in a sharp, pained breath. Gabranth only belatedly realised that it was him. “Look at this...” the Princess whispered, and Gabranth moved without being ordered to to kneel at the side of the first body. He checked if the man was alive, and when that failed, checked for division insignia.

They were _his_ men.

Slowly, he pressed a hand to his face, took in a shaking breath as the party watched. “These are my soldiers, my Judges,” his voice came out hollow and ragged. “Whatever happened here, I can assure you, they were not selected without intent.” He clenched his hands into fists, teeth grit. “They died because of _me_.”

“They died because of _Cid_ ,” Balthier snarled, and kept walking. “The longer we linger, the worse it will get.” He was right, but there was a soft side to his voice that reminded Gabranth that this had been done to wound him; had been done to rake him over the coals.

He counted, each and every fallen soldier they saw. He tallied them up in his mind, and grit his teeth, and bore it.

When they found a soldier alive, though… Larsa knelt beside them immediately. The dying figure stirred, stunned. “Lord Larsa...” she whispered, voice hoarse. “But you—“

“There is no time,” Larsa’s words were quick with haste. “Save your strength.” Gabranth stopped beside the young Lord and crouched to be at his level, helped the soldier remove her helmet. It was a young woman beneath, not much older than the Princess, her brown hair plastered to her face with sweat and blood. She stared at them, in awe and anguish.

“Judge Mag—“ Gabranth shook his head; there was no time to waste with pleasantries or rank. She was trembling all over; she had not long to live. “I did everything I could, I...” She sobbed, a broken, heady sound. “Stay away from Doctor Cid,” she whispered, her voice fading—she had a gut wound so grievous her body had been nearly vivisected. Larsa was not looking at it: he focused on her face, did not let the horror of her life fading mar his forced-impassive expression. “He...” tears slipped down her cheeks.

Gabranth took one of her hands in both of his, and smiled. “You performed admirably,” he promised her, hardly paying attention to the rest of the party moving on into the room the woman had desperately guarded with the last of her strength, speaking in hushed tones inside, while he and Larsa stayed crouched by a dying woman.

All except one.

Ashelia joined them, the Princess taking the woman’s other hand. Her mask had cracked, although all that showed through was a twist of her lips that belied a far greater surge of emotion. This woman, with no love for the Empire, stayed as a girl her own age across the lines that had been cut into their lives with grief and fire bled out her last onto the floor.

“I could have expected no less, Nerissa. Thank you for your service. I am...sorry, you had to die in my stead.” He remembered the names of all his men; he had given all of them his trust. In return, they had followed him unto the ends of the world. Their lives would not now be forfeit had he not shirked all duty, kith and country, for the lofty hopes of one small boy. Nerissa smiled and shook her head, her fingers weakening between his. Larsa leaned forward to gently hold either side of her head, help her stay upright as she found her way gently into death, the boy’s face stoic and tense with pain.

“It was an honour.” the woman whispered, and slowly softened beneath his hands. Gabranth let the breath he was holding go, and dropped his head, his fingers holding hers tight as she stilled. Larsa pressed his small face into the curve of his neck, using Gabranth’s skin to blot the tears on his lashes, and Ashelia stood beside them.

Shouts, of his soldiers and others, arose. The party raced back out of Cid’s chambers, Balthier in the lead with purpose in his stride, barking that they had to find his father.

There was no time to mourn.

Gabranth pressed it down in his chest, like a cold hard stone behind his breastbone, and swore silent vengeance for the lost lives of his men, cut down for the sin of having once served him.

They pressed on.

 

 

They found the earlier visitor—or, rather, the earlier visitor found them—on the 70th floor. He came rushing down the hallway with a shout of attack, and both Gabranth and Basch instinctively placed themselves between the threat and their charges, blades drawn, shoulder to shoulder as if it was twenty years prior. He attacked Basch directly, Gabranth spinning away to flank the man, but his brother seemed to have it under control, catching the strike one-handed, jaw grit as he pressed the man’s blade back with the rippling power of the muscle in his upper arms and shoulders, now fully returned from the journey after it had wasted away in Nalbina.

“Ah,” said the stranger, “My apologies. You bear not the stench of Cid’s lackeys.”

“And you are our earlier visitor,” Basch returned, the both of them still exerting all their strength while they spoke with strained voices.

“Judge _Zecht_?” Gabranth spluttered.

Any further revelations on that matter were thrown aside suddenly and violently by a fourth voice joining the fray. “Yes!” he said, “A valuable man, one I’d sooner not lose. Yet he knows too much.” Zecht spared Gabranth a single, bemused glance, and then with a sigh and a grunt sprinted in the direction of the voice.

“After him!” Balthier shouted, and they all set to, Balthier taking the lead. His face was not one of triumph, nor was it one of anger—it was something between, more potent and more brutal in its rawness. He had none of Larsa or Ashelia’s art of masking; he wore it plain on his face.

Grief.

 

 

Up the stairs, and into the courtyard on the roof. Zecht was already there, blades unsheathed, and before him stood Cid. “His madness has taken him further since last I saw,” Gabranth whispered, loud enough for Balthier to hear. The pirate did not respond, but his jaw tightened.

“You know deifacted nethicite brought down the Leviathan! How can you persist in this folly?” Zecht, it seemed, had come with a similar intent as they had, and had now hunted Cid down far enough to demand answers.

Cid, the mad monster that he was, just laughed. “And you’ve come here to stop me? I’d fain see you try.”

“Consider your bones, old man!” Balthier shouted, with all the wounded anger of a boar cornered, the shame-faced prodigal son, the man putting down a beast gone savage. “You’re outmatched!” Cid looked up, and if he had any recognition upon seeing his son, it did not show on his face.

“Pirate scum of the skies. What brings _you_ here?”

_No_ ; Gabranth amended. Cid knew. He just did not care.

“Treasure.” Balthier, like all good Archadians, hid deep hurt with quick words. “What else would a pirate want? We’ll take the Dusk Shard.”

Cid laughed again. “You’ve come all the way for that trinket? I thought you above this.” And then again, his odd tick, his trick of the light ( _that was no trick_ , Gabranth knew, that was something far more sinister even if he did not know just _what_ it was—) the madness clouding Cid’s face sloughed off of him like shed skin, and his clear, sharp eyes found Ashelia as if a cloud had lifted from the skies. “The Princess of Dalmasca come to visit? She’s not entirely without merit. A test of sorts, for our princess?” It was disconcerting as hell to watch the man have a one-sided conversation with thin air, as animatedly as he might with another human standing beside him. For those with them who had never before met the Doctor, their expressions ranged from confusion to (in Penelo’s case) abject fear.

For Balthier and Gabranth, who had seen far more of this than they wanted, it was merely a matter of the way Cid was. Gabranth, however, could only imagine how it must have felt to be his son, and then suddenly, find the father you knew gone. Cid had _changed_ , six years before. He had never been the same again—and Gabranth doubted that, even if he'd had the opportunity, he would not have become his old self again by choice or by force.

“You’re a babbling fool.” Ashelia replied, after a moment, her face mixed consternation and concern (no doubt for Balthier). Privately, Gabranth thought she had the right of it, and was brave enough to say it to his face where none else would. Certainly Balthier looked relieved to have the words spoken aloud, and he clapped the Princess silently on the shoulder, in thanks.

Cid, however, seemed to take no notice of the censure and continued as if he had never been interrupted. “A trial,” he proclaimed, throwing his arms in the air like a showman hawking wares upon a dingy streetcorner from a shady cart, “For Ashelia B’nargin Dalmasca!” He looked at her then, with that same tactless, burning stare, all the artifice set aside. It was as if he could put on and take off his madness like a robe when the need and desire suited him, and the rapid oscillations in his mood and manner had been jarring enough when Gabranth had been his ally. “You lust for the Stone’s power, do you not?”

His words hit home, and Ashe broke eye contact, her motives revealed.

“Lend him not your ears, m’lady. He means to use you.” Zecht stepped before them again, and Gabranth desperately wanted to demand answers from the man.

Whatever opportunity there was for conversation or continued posturing was wiped away by the blast of power that came from across from them as Cid began to glow as if aflame, wisps of light spiralling around his frame and up from his clenched fists. He jumped and landed before them on the ground, and Gabranth automatically stepped half in front of Larsa, drawing _Highway Star_ as dust and dirt lifted from the floor, blown away by the force that Cid had mustered.

Fran made a pained noise, pressing the base of her palm against her forehead, just over her eyes. She had no need to inform them of the presence of the Mist, however, for it was completely visible now, as thick around Cid as pouring rain. He _breathed_ the damn stuff, inhaled it, and raised his arms to the sky. Still, she spoke: “Manufacted nethicite. Like Bergan!”

“He truly is mad,” Basch whispered, horror-struck. Balthier said nothing, just drew, loaded, and cocked his gun. There was pain settled in the lines beside his eyes and his mouth, and he looked at Cid as if the man standing before him was one he hardly knew.

“Balthier, if you want to let us...” Vaan began, but the pirate emphatically shook his head, jaw tight.

“He was my father, before the monster you see before you consumed the man within.” Balthier snarled, “If he must needs be put out of his misery with a gun to the temple like a dog gone rabid, then I shall not let him want for a cure.” He glanced at Larsa, who looked back at him with understanding in his eyes. “I believe it is a sentiment many of us share.”

Gabranth looked, and found his own brother watching him, eyes hard.

“If you know something—” Basch began, and Gabranth shook his head.

“Nothing that is of enough surety or import to help us now,” he replied, drawing _Chaos Blade_ and attaching his two swords together, spinning them as they settled with their combined weight in his hands. “Nor could I explain what I suspect even if we had time unfathomable.” He looked away from Basch, and back to Cid, who had drawn guns. “Fight him, and when all is safe, I will say what little I know and suspect.”

“Fine.” Basch didn’t like it; Gabranth had hardly expected him to.

“How could you do this?” Balthier asked his father. “How could you fall this far?” Cid did not answer.

Again: Gabranth had not expected him to.

The fight that followed was nothing like the damage they had done to Bergan. That had been as quick and brutal as snapping a bone—this instead was like pulling teeth. Cid seemed to have no _end_ to his bullets and firearms, and he had apparently designed an arena just for the possibility of combat. Even when some of the others stepped back, to drink a potion or to let Penelo heal them, Balthier stood in the centre of the not-so-metaphorical ring of fire and soldiered on. Beside him, Fran fought tooth and claw, with Balthier in this as she was in all other things.

When Cid’s guns transformed, though, Gabranth bodily dragged Larsa out of harm’s way, throwing him to the side of the arena. “ _No_ ,” he said to the boy, who glared at him. “Not for a cause as insignificant and petty as this monster’s ill-timed family feud will I put your life in danger, my Lord. There will be ample opportunity later, I am sure.”

“Fine.” Larsa acquiesced, and the rest of the fight was spent with Gabranth side-by-side with his brother, taking hits so Balthier did not have to. It ended when the pirate reloaded his guns and shot, the bullet taking his father hard in the hand, Cid yelping as his remaining gun fell to the ground with a trail of blood from his palm, and held the injured limb tight to his chest.

Truth be told, he hardly seemed to notice the pain. Gabranth, suspicious to the last, did not sheathe his weapon: he stayed at the ready, out of breath and badly bruised, ready to jump the Doctor if he tried anything untoward.

However, there was no need for him to be at the ready. Cid stumbled and dropped to the ground, exhausted, a puppet with his strings cut. His head hung limp against his chest, and Balthier shoved past the brothers, lowering his weapon, to try and reach his father. He was cut off by rapid footsteps as Zecht dove into the fray with a shout, weapons raised.

Balthier was spared watching his father be decapitated by a brilliant shield of blue light launching up around the older man, and Zecht was sent flying by it, tumbling (as Vaan would no doubt have put it in Rabanastran street slang) arse over teakettle. He hit the ground some twenty feet away, one sword dropped, and barely managed to roll to his feet. Zecht was shaking, one hand taking most of his weight, and stared at Cid with an expression of suffused rage and loathing.

Cid stood then, apparently no more damaged by the fight than merely being out of breath. “Venat,” he said, adjusting his cuffs, dusting his hands off (just like his son so often did), “You shouldn’t have.”

And then, for the first time, Gabranth saw all clearly. He had heard whispers, seen slips from the corners of his eye—seen it floating just behind Bergan at Bur-Omisace for a moment so fast that he’d tried to convince himself he’d dreamt it. Gabranth had suspected, his men had suspected—but he had never before that moment had any _proof_. He was no confidant of Vayne’s, and never had been. The current Emperor had seen no purpose to bringing his father’s disgraced lapdog and his brother’s most trusted subordinate into his secrets, and Gabranth would have balked if he had even been invited. “It is true,” he whispered, staring at the monster that floated just behind Cid’s left shoulder.

It was near twice the Doctor’s height and approximately the same shape as a targe, made out of what seemed to be twisting metal. Mist poured out of it thick enough that Fran coughed, shielding her eyes. The thing did not truly have a face, or indeed, any sort of resemblance to the many creatures that lived on Ivalice. If anything, it looked like grillwork come to life, but with horrible, glowing disembodied eyes that stared out of shadow. The aura it pulsed with was one not of malevolence, but of something utterly alien. It was less of them and more of the Mist, a kind of inhuman being that left a taste of blood and cordite in Gabranth’s mouth.

“This _creature_ ,” Balthier spat, not looking away from his father, “So _this_ is your Venat?” The moment it was acknowledged the thing vanished again as if it had never been, Mist twirling around Cid like the caress of a lover.

Gabranth felt sick. This, _this_ was what had been lurking over Cid’s shoulder; this was the guide that Vayne had deferred to for the past six years. He hardly noticed the conversation going on around him, with Cid sniping at Ashelia to rouse the Princess’ ire, aside from the tension in the air. He was focused instead on a horrible realisation: one he should have come to long before.

Whatever sort of game Cid and Vayne were playing, he had never known even the _beginning_ of their endgame.

 

 

Gabranth held his own counsel until they had boarded Zecht’s ship, the Princess having decided to take advantage of his apparent hospitality rather than try and break back out of Draklor. Their entrance had not exactly left them a proper escape route, so he could not decry her decision as an outright dangerous one. Indeed, Zecht might have dubious morals and unclear goals, but he was, for the time being, seemingly on their side. However, Gabranth could not remain silent on the subject of the man before them. His duty to his charge came before any demands of the long-dead.

“We shall to Balfonheim,” Zecht explained to Ashelia as he swung into the pilot’s seat of his craft, Balthier wordlessly taking the copilot’s spot, Fran standing behind him, her hands braced on the back of his chair. “There, I have news that you must hear, Your Majesty.”

“We shall nowhere at all,” Gabranth snapped, stepping forward and grabbing the wheel of the craft, freezing Zecht, “Until _you_ explain how you yet live.” The other man looked up at him, and they stood there both for a long, silent moment, tension prickling the fine hairs on the back of Gabranth's neck.

“That is not a tale for this day, Gabranth.”

“Zecht, I shall not blindly trust the safety of the two people on this continent who can see us through this storm unto peace to a man who was meant to have died in Nabudis. The Lady Ashelia may trust you for the purpose of our escaping near-certain death, but you will _not_ take her and Lord Larsa anywhere without an explanation.”

“As much as it pains me to have him speak my thoughts, my brother and I are of the same mind.” Basch was backing him up, a sturdy, quiet presence with his powerful arms crossed over his chest. “I was _there_ at Nabudis. I too would like to know how, exactly, you survived that blast.”

“Now is not the time to dredge up the unspeakable ghosts of the past,” Zecht replied, frosty. “It is a tale too long in the telling for our purposes; unless you are saying you wish for us to be captured?” Gabranth ground his teeth. “You have my word, on the lives lost by my hand at Nabudis, that no harm shall come to either the Princess or Lord Larsa while you travel with me. I will explain all in due time, should the opportunity arise.” Gabranth hesitated, not entirely willing, until Larsa cleared his throat.

“For now we have but no choice to trust in him. I believe he can be held to his word. Let us quit this place, as I for one do not wish to face my brother’s sworn swords.” Called down by his master, Gabranth sighed and let go of the wheel so that Zecht could properly fly the ship. Stepping back to let Vaan shove up to the front, practically climbing onto the dashboard to get a good look at the ship’s controls, Gabranth brushed shoulders with his brother, who leaned over so they could speak under their breath in Landiser.

“Can you be certain this Reddas truly _is_ Judge Zecht? I myself saw him at the nexus of that maelstrom, Noah. No mortal man could have survived that. No man _should_ have.” Basch’s face was unreadable, but he stared at Zecht suspiciously. He had deferred to the Princess without any sort of fuss, but he still was on-edge. They _both_ were.

“I would bet my life on it.” Zecht—Reddas, now, as he insisted—was a handful of years younger than Gabranth was, and had been made a Magister some time after him. He had always been closer to Vayne and Cid than Gabranth was, and only after he vanished after Nabudis had Gabranth been taken into any sort of confidence by the Solidor heir. Gabranth had now known him nearly a decade—or, at least, nearly a decade before he had vanished. “I knew him before he was Magister; that is Foris Zecht.” Basch’s jaw was hard.

“He has a great deal to answer for,” his brother said at last. “I trust him no further than I can throw him.” Gabranth clapped his brother on the shoulder in silent agreement, and then moved into the hold of the ship to wait for the brief trip from Archades to Balfonheim.

“When you two are as thick as thieves like that, it worries me!” Balthier called after him. “You’re being suspicious again!”

“I believe,” Larsa replied for him, magnanimous as ever, “That is the point.”


	3. biding time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is upon you, Larsa, that I have wagered all our fortunes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is twice as long as every other chapter because theres like no good way to break it up (i also ran out of titles) so uhhh
> 
> enjoy gabranth falling in a pond. eat shit, laddio

As it turned out, there was no time for Zecht to relate the tale of his escape from Nabudis, nor even the details of how he had become a sky pirate of more than polite standing in Balfonheim. Those mysteries of his past were left unrevealed, and the Princess did not press. After all, her uncle had sent him, and she trusted her uncle. If Halim Ondore told her this man was to be trusted, even obliquely, she would do so. Ashelia was Zecht’s guest and it was her he answered to—the rest of them were merely her entourage, and of only passing interest for Reddas. Even Larsa, just as vital to the cause of peace as Ashelia, took a second seat to her wishes. That, at least, made sense: Halim Ondore had little interest in Larsa Ferrinas Solidor.

It was only after they had landed in Balfonheim and disembarked the _Ravana_ that there was a moment even to breathe. “My manse is yours to use,” Reddas explained, leading the way out of the hangar and into the airship dome, Ashe hot on his heels. “I daresay all amid your company may want for a good rest.” Indeed, he was correct—it _had_ been a long day, since they had left just before dawn when they had left the Sochen Cave Palace and entered Old Archades. “Avail yourselves of the amenities I have at your disposal. Bathe, eat, rest. We shall speak after you have yet had time to change clothes.”

“Is it not pressing?” Larsa asked, quickening his step to remain with the Princess. “Every moment we waste is one more closer to war.”

“Indeed, it is.” Reddas scrubbed a hand over his shaved head. “But to talk of such things _now_ , without time allowed to rest, would only lead us in circles.” The sun was setting over the port, painting the ocean and the sand in streaks of red and gold. “I daresay that Vayne’s war shall wait for us another morning.” Larsa nodded, pensive.

“Then we shall discuss what and why my uncle sent you in the morning,” Ashelia agreed. She looked back toward the rest of them as they came to a halt in the crowded streets of Balfonheim, hands folded before her. “We reconvene at the manse after dawn.”

“Sweet,” Vaan said, immediately about-facing back into the aerodrome. “Hey Penelo, have you got the energy for some hunts? Because I have a bunch of writs. I picked some up in Archades.”

“Oh, sure!” Penelo followed after him. Vaan paused, and looked to Balthier.

“Balthier?”

“I’ll sit this one out,” the pirate said after a moment. Fran was watching him intently, and he shook his head. “I need to think. Go with them if you wish.”

“I shall.” Fran smiled and gently touched his shoulder before following the teenagers, quickening her step to keep pace with them. Once she had vanished back inside, Balthier’s mask slipped slightly to reveal a deeper hurt. He left without another word, arms crossed, and vanished into the streets of Balfonheim. Larsa hesitated a moment and then walked after the pirate, speaking to him in a low tone that Gabranth could not hear.

Ashe, along with Basch, obtained directions to the manse and went together, the guard dog beside his lady master, which left Gabranth and Zecht staring at each other, neither of them moving. “Foris,” Gabranth began, carefully setting his hand atop the hilt of one sword.

“Noah,” replied the other man. Neither of them moved or spoke for a time, citizens of the port passing by and waving or shouting greetings to the pirate.

“Well?” Zecht prompted at last, crossing his powerful arms over his chest. “Here I thought you were intending to interrogate me, and yet you stand there, silent as ever.”

“Waiting for you to begin,” Gabranth admitted. “I thought you had died at Nabudis.”

“Most did. That was the intention.” Zecht sniffed and turned, taking his eyes off of Gabranth to look out over the sea. “When I did not return, I assumed the obvious answer would be reached. I thought it best to die without revealing the nature of what it was I had been dispatched to do. No doubt Cid and Vayne would have wanted my _head_ had they known that I yet lived.” They probably would have. Gabranth had spent the better part of a year chasing after shadows when Zecht had vanished; there had been no leads. Only after he had exhausted every possibility had Vayne admitted that the man might have perished in his efforts to see Cid's plans to fruition.

"So how did you survive?" Gabranth cocked his head. "You bear no scars; no clear damage. The Dawn Shard destroyed the 8th fleet utterly, the Midlight left Nabudis an uninhabitable ruin. Yet _you_ still live. The Princess and Lord Larsa may trust you for your intervention at Draklor, but I shall place my trust in no broken Magister." At least Drace had died true to her vows; Gabranth would do the same. Zecht was no better than Bergan or Ghis, who had both turned on their promises the moment they had turned to greed.

"I survived the same way the Princess and her companions survived the Leviathan. I had been given what was then a prototype of the manufacted nethicite that is now so ubiquitous in the army." Zecht's face had gone blank; a conscious mask. He did not look at Gabranth. "I was able to watch in horror all that happened in the greatest detail. The Mist did not touch me. That...was perhaps worst of all."

Gabranth had little sympathy. The other man was not the only one who had been turned into an unwitting scapegoat in Solidor schemes. Zecht had made the decision to follow Vayne and Cid; he had earned his death in Nabudis. Any evidence of the true, honourable Magister he had been before had been wiped from his slate by his cowardly escape.

"So you turned your back on kin and country and became a pirate." Gabranth could not keep the disgust out of his voice. He had been reading reports of this so-called pirate king Reddas for the past two years, but had assumed it was some ill-tempered Nabradian who had run rather than face Imperial rule, as his brother had near twenty years before. He had never considered it could be his former brother-in-arms, turned to a life of vice and greed, living in ignominy instead of accepting an honourable death. "Ran, rather than faced your sins. I know not why my brother distrusts you. The two of you should be as thick as thieves."

"Aye," Reddas snapped back, fury clouding his face as he turned toward Gabranth, teeth bared. "And I should do it again if I must. I will _not_ serve a nation of men who would see such wanton destruction; nay, I shall never do so again. If I must face disgrace and a black mark on my name to prevent their future, than endure it I shall. Asides," They stared one another down with the stench of the ill-begotten past heady between them, "Who are _you_ to speak of loyalty? You of all men I expected to go down with the Archadian ship, yet you ran as sure as did I. Turned the moment your Master was replaced by a new hand on your leash?"

The hilt of his blade bit into the flesh of his hand through his glove. "I serve Archadia unto my dying breath," Gabranth snarled. "How _dare_ you call me traitor, you who took your failures to your grave and left indignity and grief in your wake!"

"Then do you travel not with the Princess of Dalmasca? For last I looked you numbered among her retinue." Gabranth laughed bitterly.

"Lord Larsa travels with the Princess, for he thinks she can make peace out of war through naught but honeyed words and the kindness of her true heart. If he believes she has the right of it then I shall remain by his side as long as he should wish it." He sobered. "I travel with Larsa; nothing more. It is my charge to see him safe."

"A pity the boy does not sit the throne as Emperor, then." Reddas sneered. "Methinks Vayne shall show little and less sympathy for the excuse of loyalty to his brother. I doubt he shall have the same love for you Larsa shows." Gabranth bit his tongue, rather than begin a row in the streets. Reddas nodded his farewell, without affection.

The other man left, and for a time Gabranth stood, staring after him. He could not think of anything more to say; anything else to linger on.

 

 

The following morning, they reconvened as a group in Reddas' office. It was a sprawling room left open to the sea, and salt rode the wind inside. It was a good bit past dawn, as Vaan had proved impossible to rouse. A breakfast had been provided of fresh fruit and cheese; simple but good fare. It was only when the scent had wafted out of the dining room that Vaan had dragged himself from his bed and tumbled tousle-haired into one of the empty seats, eating twice that of everyone else at the table. The whole time, he talked animatedly about the adventures he, Penelo, and Fran had been on the previous night, ending in them returning only barely prior to dawn. Larsa had listened, rapt, exclaiming with excitement at certain points in the narrative. Penelo had shown how she could now read a hunt bill to Larsa with pride, and after everyone had eaten they had gone into the city for a time, as Reddas had found himself bogged down in the clerical work of running a pirate empire.

Thus had things gone sour. Every one among their company had something of the last day on their minds, and more of the future. It had remained unspoken, hidden beneath a veneer of lightheartedness.

"It's pointless," it had been spoken by a man, over a game of dice. "Ondore'll be eaten alive by Vayne. The man's a rat bastard, but he can fight a war." His companion had laughed. "He needs our money more than we. We won't need it ourselves if Vayne wins."

"I've never been so glad to not care one way or another about that gods-forsaken sandy hell. I wish Ondore the best of luck crushing Vayne; he deserves to have shit on his face." Basch had had to drag the Princess away then, and the mood had been blackened such that they returned to the manse in ill-tempered silence, and finally into this study, where Reddas waited for them, cleaned and changed as they all were.

"Princess," he bowed from the waist, and then a second time with, "Lord Larsa." Ashelia crossed her arms and Larsa folded his hands. "I sense something is amiss?" He looked between the two of them. "My hospitality, I hope, has not been lacking?"

The Princess shook her head, stepping past him to stare out to sea as the rest of them found perches about the room. Gabranth stayed beside Larsa, unwilling to relax in Zecht's presence. Their conversation the day before had _not_ left him reassured. He had related the most of it to Basch, who had taken his stance of hesitance in stride. (He had left out what he had said about Basch agreeing with him.) "You have opened your home to us despite all, and for that I thank you. It is...this place," she said at last, turning back. "Balfonheim. They choose to supply the Resistance, yet raise not a sword in aid. What city could _do_ this?"

"A city of men without countries. Pirates of the sea and of the sky." Zecht had always been a direct man, in all the years Gabranth had known him. He was no less so now, even with a new identity and the trappings of his old life thrown away behind him. "Few are they who would fain lay down their lives for a friend, let alone a king."

Those words did not seem to quiet Ashe's reservations. "The Marquis—" she looked to Zecht. "He is set on war?"

"The time approaches when he must make his position vis-à-vis the empire clear. When he helped you off the Leviathan, he spited the Judges full sore." Zecht nodded brusquely to Gabranth. "As no doubt your ill-tempered companion could tell you. He cannot now sit in idleness and expect to avoid a reckoning.

"The Marquis shares my distaste for war," Reddas continued, the same look upon his face now as had been when he and Gabranth had spoken the previous evening. "Yet, if it comes to it, he will show no quarter." The Princess seemed discomfited by this pronouncement; surely she had not thought her uncle a man of all kindness and grace? She was too world-weary, Gabranth had thought, for _that_ sort of delusion. But perhaps it was the last trappings of her lost childhood, trying to find the remains of her life before the war.

"How can you be sure?"

"He hath told me so himself," Zecht cocked an eyebrow. "Surely you do not think I infiltrated Draklor alone, without the help of any other? I should not have done it had the Marquis not pushed my hand."

"It's just what Vayne wants," Basch snapped. "He lures the Rozarrians and the Resistance to the field, then crushes both with the nethicite!"

"I think not." Balthier shook his head. "Cid has the stone. We grab it, and smash it to pieces with the Sword of Kings. Vayne will be left holding nary a thing." Gabranth did not speak it, but he did not share the pirate's optimism. He knew Vayne well enough that there was not a doubt in his mind that there was some greater plan; something none of them could yet see.

"It is a solid conjecture," Larsa admitted. "But...I am unsure my Lord brother could be taken by such a trick. There is something here that we are overlooking." Gabranth nodded his agreement, and Balthier looked ticked.

"So would you have us do elsewise?"

"No." Larsa shook his head. "If Cid is headed towards Giruvegan, we must needs follow. I should not risk the addition of more stones to this already-complex game of chess. It is bad enough that they possess the Dusk Shard, if we have any opportunity at our fingertips to change that position, we should take it, and quickly."

"Giruvegan..." the Princess tested the word against her lips.

"It is told of, in a song of my people." Fran seemed hesitant to mention it. Knowing what Gabranth did of Cid's venture there six years previously, he did not blame the Viera for her reluctance. "On the farthest shores of the river of time/shrouded deep in the roiling mist/the holy land sleeps: Giruvegan./Who knows the paths?/The way to its doors?"

"The Jagd Difohr," Gabranth said, quietly. He knew not where within, but that had been Cid's destination. Last time. "Whence went Cid, six years hence. No doubt it is his destination again." Balthier grimaced, a lancing pain crossing his face. Now he, too, would see what it was that had cracked his father's mind and spewed him out the hollow corpse of the man he once was.

"Deep within the jungle of Golmore there is a corner of the Feywood, where a Mist-storm surges and seethes." Reddas explained. “I have had my men look into it previously.” He did not say it, but Gabranth suspected that Zecht, too, had wanted to know the nature of what had robbed Cidolfus Demen Bunansa of his sanity.

"Then that's it!" Vaan looked about, wide-eyed. "Let's go!" He grabbed Penelo's hand.

"Right!" They raced out together, no doubt to gather their things. At the head of the pack as always. Fran and Basch followed them, Larsa just after.

Gabranth thought to hang back, but Larsa looked up at him. "Gabranth?"

“Nothing, my Lord.” Rather than disappoint, he followed. He would be glad to be well-quit of the disgraced Judge Magister Zecht.

 

 

It took a fortnight for them to reach the Feywood. First they left via the Cerobbi Steppe, a hard slog mostly uphill from Balfonheim to rejoin the Tchita Uplands where they had previously split to the Sochen Cave Palace. Then it was overland back out of Archadian airspace, retracing their steps from only a few days previous—this time _without_ the delay in the Salikawood to repair the bridge. They ran into an Esper in the Mosphoran Highwaste, one that took a great deal of effort to dispatch and whose glyph after settled between Balthier’s shoulderblades, the pirate scratching at it when he did not know they were watching him. Off and on they made use of passing chocobo porters, and at the end of the first week they arrived back in Rabanastre, sand and sun-drenched for a night of true rest in the Sandsea and to check up on the _Strahl,_ left there for repairs before they had to Archades.

The following day began by the Princess following rumours of a monster in the sewers to find an Esper polluting Rabanastre’s water. She took the glyph herself with grim determination: she bore a great weight upon her soul for her country, and this was no greater a burden. Then, they began to help recover some kind of a medallion—a side-trip that Gabranth found himself wishing to speak up against, but mute in the face of Balthier and Fran’s arguments that _anything_ they had to help them with what awaited in Giruvegan was going to be worth the effort.

From there the party split, all running different errands. Vaan had a handful of hunts that he had to complete for them to regain the items they needed, and Penelo and Larsa went with him. Gabranth stayed in the Sandsea, using his fine-honed skills as spymaster to coordinate who was where, as Balthier ferried Ashelia and Basch to and from the end of Archades airspace in the _Strahl_. Fran kept herself as their eyes and ears on the ground in Rabanastre.

At the end of three days of effort, they found themselves at the entrance to the Nabreus Deadlands, rejoined as a party once again. As Balthier had put Ashelia’s position, she would not dare venture into that mist-choked hellhole for longer than a single visit without every sword hand they possessed. “It seems inconceivable that this is all that remains of Nabradia...” Larsa whispered, as they stood at the edge of the Salikawood. It cut off suddenly—not a gentle shift of thick treelife into the stone of the Deadlands. One step, jungle, vines, canopy. The next, jagged rock walls.

“It gets only worse from here,” Ashe warned, wrapping her fingers around the hilt of her sword, the _Tournesol_. The golden flower upon its hilt seemed...inappropriate, here. A light in a place made of darkness and regret. The grief was palpable, as thick as the fog that rolled in off of the Deadlands. “Basch and I have not truly gone all that deep,” she admitted after a moment. “Ma’kleou said that the Medallion of Might is kept farther inside than we’ve yet ventured. I _shudder_ to think what awaits us within.”

“We had best find out before dark,” Balthier put in, stepping forward. Unafraid as ever, he brushed aside the last of the Salika canopy. “I for one have no interest in stumbling about with the corpses of the dead at the witching hour.”

“The ghosts within care not _when_ in the day we disturb them,” Gabranth said, low, as he followed the pirate’s lead. “They shall curse us from their early graves regardless.” There was a beat as they all began to move, and then Vaan piped up, shakily,

“Wait, do you seriously think there are ghosts?” He jogged up to walk beside Gabranth, looking frightened. “Like, it’s _haunted_?”

“If anywhere is haunted, it is Nabradia.” Gabranth fought the urge to mention that they’d run into ghosts previously, had to cut them down with magic and blades. He did soften after a moment, however. “Vaan, of those amongst us the ghosts should greet with damnation, you are the _last_ I would expect.” Vaan looked confused. “Your brother died trying to stop the atrocities that killed them from being repeated a second time. I should think they will guide you safely through; you are no threat to them.” Neither was Ashelia, with her back straight and her knuckles white on her sword hilt as she walked into the kingdom that had belonged to her beloved, the country that would have been hers had Cid and Zecht not done away with land and husband both in the pursuit of knowledge. She was their Princess. She would have been their Queen.

No, Vaan and Ashe were safe, of that he was almost sure.

“Walk not with me.” Gabranth straightened, squaring his jaw. “I am the one among our number whom they are most like to curse and damn”

Vaan looked haggard for a moment, and then moved on. They settled into the motion of walking, climbing the stone peaks that led into the Deadlands. Atop the first summit was the remains of a structure, decayed far quicker than it should have been, and below them sprawled out the mists, unnaturally thick. They stopped for Ashe to talk to the guide she and Basch had been meeting, and with their destination in mind, moved on from there.

It was swamp, now, more than any other sort of landscape. They had no map, and what passed for paths through the Deadlands as they ventured deeper were dew-slick and poured over with fog off of the water at best—and at worst they were almost impossible to see, let alone walk along. It was one one such stretch of wet wood over the deeper swamp, pushing trailing fronds from tree limbs out of his way, that Gabranth’s boots slipped. They were meant for traction on the floors of palaces and for solid kicks in battle, since they were his armour, not for tromping about on old wet docks.

Yelping, Gabranth skidded, his legs starting to go out from under him. The vines he was holding onto did nothing at all to slow his fall, and he had a moment to try to grab onto something else before he toppled directly into the swamp. Basch was nearest, and Gabranth grabbed his brother’s shoulder to attempt to steady himself, only for his brother to stumble under the sudden weight.

It was too late.

Gabranth’s legs went the rest of the way out from under him, and with a shout he toppled backwards off of the wooden bridge, directly ass-first into the swampy water below. Fortunately it was not all that deep, and while he struck the ground and was submerged while sitting, by the time he’d managed to wrestle himself and his armour upright, he stood chest-deep in brackish, algae-filled water. Lily pads bumped against his neck and chin, and he swiped them out of the way, his arms trailing lichen. A fish swam into his leg.

Spitting water, wiping pond scum off of his face and hair, Gabranth stared up at the party on the bridge. They were all staring at him with faces a mix of potent emotion. Larsa looked worried, Vaan confused, Penelo surprised. Balthier and Ashe both looked bored, and Fran was unreadable as always.

Basch looked like he’d just sucked on something sour, as he tried—and failed— to hold back laughter. He kept blinking rapidly, his cheeks tight and his lips pursed. “Oh,” Gabranth snapped in Landiser, as he peeled part of a lily pad off of his head, and flung it back into the water out of frustration, “Just do it, you bastard.” _That_ broke Basch’s self control and he burst out laughing, doubling over almost immediately, crying with it. Gabranth hauled himself to the edge of the dock, underwater weeds wrapped around his legs, and grabbed onto the support of the structure, dragging himself partway up out of the water.

When nobody came to help him except Larsa, Balthier groaned and game to grab his other hand. Together the two of them managed to haul Gabranth far enough out that he was bent at the waist over the edge of the dock and he scrambled back up onto the bridge by himself, collapsing onto his back with a gasp. He was dripping water everywhere, and now that he was safely out, the rest of the party began laughing as well. Even Fran, who merely chuckled and hid it behind a polite hand.

Even Larsa laughed at him, although the young man did so while knelt down beside him, using his handkerchief to wipe the pond scum off of Gabranth’s face. “You look a right mess,” the young Lord admitted, smiling. Gabranth sighed and dropped his head back to rest on the planks and just let Larsa wipe him up.

“This is all going to rust,” he said, to the continued laughter of the rest of the group. “I suppose you all think I deserve it.”

“A little.” Penelo admitted, as Basch added his hand to Larsa’s to help Gabranth get back upright. It took more effort than he would have liked, and by the time he stood, he was dripping everywhere, sopping wet. He shook, like an unhappy dog, and then sighed.

“I shall have to take this off and clean it before it rusts.” They had luckily not gone far past the outcrop where Ashe and Basch had previously visited.

“Then we should set up camp,” Basch replied. “A base will make moving through here far quicker.”

“Yeah,” Vaan looked around at all the fog and water. “We’re all gonna get lost here, and fast. We should have somewhere to return to.” With that consensus reached, they retraced their steps back up the rise. Atop the remaining Nabradian structure they built a fire and sketched a brief map of what they already had seen of the area, and found that they had a long way to go to reach Overlooking Eternity where Ma’kleou was waiting for them.

“We should split up,” Balthier said at last, tapping his fingers against the ground. “Fran, Vaan, you come with me—“

“Nay,” the Viera said, and Balthier looked up at her, surprised. Gabranth looked at her as well, still mid-way through stripping out of his scale mail. There was a pallor underneath her dark skin, and she shook her head. “The Mist here is...sick. It speaks to me of grief and anguish.” Fran pressed a hand to the side of her head. “I shall be of no help here.” Balthier looked worried for a fleeting moment, but then smoothed it over with the gloss of his mask. He trusted her, and he trusted her to know her limits. Gabranth sometimes wondered why he hadn’t given the lad a better chance as a Judge.

“Right. Then you stay here, rest. We’ll come back and get you when we find a place to camp that’s closer to our destination. Penelo, you come with us then.” He rubbed his chin. “If Gabranth is staying here to get the wet out of his armour, then Larsa, Basch, and the princess make up our other group.” He folded up the piece of vellum he had been sketching the map on. “Let’s split up and try to meet up back again in the middle. Otherwise, be back here in two hours.”

On the portion of their journey that Gabranth had been with them thus far, they had been travelling mostly areas someone knew. The Rabanastrans knew most of Dalmasca like the back of their hands. Fran had led them unerring through Golmore Jungle, and they had been navigating the Rift before Gabranth had joined them. In Archades, he and Balthier had been able to find their way without maps, and outdoor camping like this had not ben the kind of necessity it now was. Before, they had stayed at traveller’s camps or hunter’s villages, with the other itinerants of Ivalice.

Now, though, they were faced by a dangerous area about which they knew little and less, and which nobody had explored—or, if they had, they had seen things that had left them unable to speak of it. It was circumspect to move with caution, to have a base at which they would rest. So one person stayed at the camp (or, in this case, two) and the rest moved on to scout before they found a better, more central location. After all, from here they would be going to the Necrohol, and that would be even _more_ dangerous than just scumming about in the swamp that remained of Nabradia.

The two scouting parties left soon after, and in order to assuage his worries about Larsa running about a curst swamp with his brother, Gabranth finished stripping out of his armour and sat down by the fire on a stone and began methodically wiping all of it down piece by piece. In only his shorts he was chilled despite the humidity rolling over them in the fog from below, so he worked as fast as he could.  _This_ was the downside to wearing so much leather. It took forever to dry out. At least his shirt would soon be fine, stuck up on two sticks beside the fire so that the linen could get the most of the heat. His armour from the waist down, though, would likely have to remain off until the following morning at the earliest. Which meant he would be sitting about the Deadlands with no proper trousers on. Not...his idea of an enjoyable day trip, to say the very least.

It was after some time, when he was about half-finished with his scale mail, that Gabranth felt eyes on him. He looked up at Fran, who was watching at him from where she had sprawled, chin balanced delicately on one long-fingered hand. For a moment, they just stared at each other until he cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Can I...help you?” He said at last. The Viera made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. Gabranth felt a hot surge of suspicion, and spoke before he could censor it— “Did you stay merely to watch me to be sure I would do nothing untoward?”

“No,” Fran replied easily, arching her dainty white eyebrows. “Should I have?” A hot flush splashed over the back of his neck at the very concept that he might be being watched by the woman, and he looked down at the armour again. His skin was fair enough that he was sure she had seen.

His kingdom for a helmet.

“Truly,” she said after a moment, her voice soft, “The Mist here, the fog...it tastes to me of ash and burning.” She lifted her nose and opened her mouth slightly, baring her teeth as she scented the air. “You cannot sense it as I can. The Forest might be dead to my benumbed ears, but I still hear and see more than your wool-covered eyes do.”

“And what do you see here?” He was morbidly curious. Gabranth had not been at Nabudis. He had been ordered to hang back; Vayne’s final chess piece on the board, the last piece in the puzzle. At the time, he had been in Archades, putting the final touches on his disguise as Basch. It had been Zecht, and Zecht alone, who had been sent to Nabudis. The events there: Rasler’s death, the fall of the Nabradian-Dalmascan alliance, the devastating end to the war, and the destruction of an entire country had remained squarely upon Zecht and Cid. It was part of why he could not bring himself to truly censure the other man.

Had he been in the same place, Gabranth would have run as well.

“Sorrow,” Fran said at last, turning to look over the mists that sprawled out below them. “A great deal of sorrow. You were right, to say that ghosts haunt these grounds, for ‘tis haunted.” Her eyes softened. “Haunted with grief.” Gabranth looked in the same direction she did, but he did not see what her eyes did, his ears did not hear the same whispers. “They linger here, the vanquished dead. But not out of anger, I think. For answers.” A shudder crawled up his spine and died buried in his hairline.

“Then perhaps it is for the best that I remain here, rather than go deeper.” Fran looked over at him, considering, fingers against her chin. She then spent a long time studying his face. Long enough that he became uncomfortable cleaning his armour and stopped.

“You discount yourself,” she said at last. “You are not the architect of their suffering. I believe they would pity you, not hate.”

“Do _you_ pity me?” He blurted after a moment, unable to stop himself. He, who bore no small part of the blame for Nabradia’s downfall? He was Judge Magister; the law was his right and his responsibility. By not stopping Vayne and Cid two years before he had been derelict of his duty—by killing Raminas he had shirked it utterly and abandoned the tenants that he had sworn to. The ghosts of Nabudis _should_ blame him.

“Yes.” Fran said at last. Then, she added, as if to clarify why, “You love him.”

“Who?” _Lord Larsa, of course,_ his mind supplied. Loved him with all his heart and soul; as great and greater than a vassal should.

“Your brother.” Fran spoke it with the half-smile in her voice of one who understood; who knew what it was to both hate and love the family that had abandoned you. “Basch. And yet, you hate. You hide your sorrow in contempt.”

It cut him to the quick.

Gabranth remained silent after that.

 

 

Some time later, after Gabranth had managed to dry his shirt and had his armour to at least now be free of algae and standing water, the first of the two scouting parties returned. He dressed when he heard their footsteps, rather than let Larsa see him in only his breeches.

It was Balthier, Vaan, and Penelo—not the Princess and her companions. He finished getting his pants on anyway, and bent to buckle his armour back on. “The Princess has gone on ahead; we found a second camping spot most of the way to Overlooking Eternity.” Balthier jerked his thumb. “They’re going to start on dinner and wait for us there. We came back for you two.”

“My taste is to quit this place sooner than later,” Fran replied. “If it will shorten our trip on the morrow, lead on.” Gabranth quickly finished dressing, despite still being damp, and buckled his swordbelt on once more, crushing out the embers of the fire and carrying the extra packs that had been left with them.

It was a fairly uneventful trek across the Deadlands. Balthier, Vaan, and Penelo had clearly marked the path on the way back to get them, so it was quick on the return. When monsters did appear out of the muck, with five of them the creatures (undead or not) posed little threat. They arrived just as the first orange and red rays of the setting sun began to scatter over the swamp, casting long dark shadows from the rocks and trees that diffused into wild strokes of light through the fog and Mist. The second camp that they had found was an area free of monsters, but far less scenic than the previous spot. It was a marshy square of stone, surrounded on almost all sides by water. A low fog coming in as the temperature dipped with the oncoming night hung heavy in a cloud over them, blurring the edges of the fire and chilling them all where they sat.

“Cozy,” Gabranth said after a moment, as he set down the rations he had been carrying. “You could not find a spot that would not leave us as dew-laden as grass upon the dawn?”

“Not without it crawling in skeletons,” Basch replied, grimacing as he tried to start the fire with a few sticks. “Would you rather fend off the dead all night?”

Gabranth ignored him, and sat down next to Larsa, still uncomfortable about looking Fran in the eye. “You are unharmed?” He had at first refused to travel separately from his charge, stuck to Larsa like a burr to a chocobo, but to do so continuously was truly impossible on a journey the size of this one. They made more progress sometimes when the group split, and there were times that to have them travel together would be too obvious.

As much as he hated to admit it, Gabranth found himself trusting Larsa’s life to this rag-tag group of heroes more and more. They had guarded him safely previously: safer even than Gabranth had. They could do so again.

“Yes,” Larsa smiled up at him, and the fog around them parted as if at the mere presence of the expression upon his face. “Indeed, look at what I found.” He pulled out of one of his pouches a small glowing white mote, and Gabranth looked at it more closely as Larsa held it out.

“A Holy mote,” he said, with some surprise. “That is rare, my Lord.” Larsa looked inordinately pleased with himself as he put it away.

“I know. I caught it just before it rolled into the swamp.” He patted the pouch. “Doubtless we will find use for it later.” Gabranth settled beside the young Lord, suffering the damp of his armour for the sake of decency as his brother moved about the camp, taking care of setting up for the evening while Vaan put his heart and soul into cooking.

“Tell me then, about what you saw today.” He folded his hands in his lap, and listened attentively as Larsa explained what he had seen in the Deadlands; the many corpses brought back to life by the Mist. He talked about the remains of the structures they had passed, and there was a wistfulness in his voice.

“I wish I could have seen Nabradia before,” the young Lord admitted. “Ashe spoke of the same. So much has been lost in our pursuit of war, Gabranth. Not just lives, but structures, histories, languages. How many more generations will speak Landiser, Old Nabradian? How long until Common Archadian and Rozarrian are all we have? How long until we forget what countries even once stood separate from the Empire?”

“Not all Empires last forever,” Gabranth promised the young man. “The sands of history do not care for the needs of Humes, nor indeed the needs of any mortal. It will all wash away.” He sighed. “Even Archades. Do not weep,” he finished, looking at his brother’s back. “For what has been lost. It would be lost regardless of war, or greed, or power. Look instead to the dawn. See what morn brings.”

“Unusually optimistic, for you.” He could hear the laughter in Larsa’s words, even if his face was impassive. “Has something changed your mind about the loss of Landis, Judge Magister?”

“No.” Gabranth quieted. “Merely a realisation.” Landis would have been crushed one way or another eventually. Archadia was going to grow until its legs failed, and then it would collapse under its own weight. He could mourn what they had lost, he could fester with poison over the brother who ran rather than face facts. But to continue to nurse his own selfish hurts, at least within the grief-clogged clouds of Nabradia, felt like ill-respect to the dead.

 

 

They finished their adventure in the Necrohol two days later. Fran had to sit it out entirely, the ghosts in the Mist too much for her. The rest of them went in together: here it was too dangerous to split up, even for the purpose of shortening their errand. Conversation died within the walls of the sunken city, and Ashelia spoke naught, her entire body tense. He caught her, once, stopping with her hand pressed against some unremarkable wall, her face falling inward up like shattered stone. Vaan and Penelo had come up with some excuse to drag the rest of them away when she had crumpled, her face mashed against Basch’s arm, her shoulders shaking.

They defeated three great monsters within, and then spent a gruelling afternoon carving down the Esper Chaos. Once again, Ashe took the creature, and its glyph spiralled across the bottom of her palm and the inside of her wrist. She traced it there thoughtfully after, as if she could sense something from it. She now bore three such marks—more than all the rest of them.

She had taken them all for her two countries, and their marks were burned onto her skin as reminders.

Afterward, when they left the tomb that was all that remained of Nabudis, They took the _Strahl_ then as far in to Golmore Jungle as they could safely fly and moored the ship there, awaiting their return. Yet another detour led them to Bur-Omisace and the Stilshrine of Miriam at the request of the Gran Kiltias, who had sent an emissary awaiting them to the jungle. Anastasis was still recovering from his injuries, but he bade them dispatch an Esper who had broke its confines. That added another day onto their trip.

This Esper nullified the magicks of their casters, so Gabranth and Basch went in side-by-side to do the brunt of the damage. It was at the end, when they had fought to a standstill, sweat dripping down his eyebrows and the back of his neck, that the creature stared him in the eyes. Gabranth heard the thing’s voice then, echoing deep inside his skull, words reverberating off of his thoughts. _You Shall Do._

The glyph burned itself onto his right forearm—the hand he had with which he had plunged his sword through King Raminas’ chest. The Esper was a cool weight against him, almost like wearing his armour again; a presence at the back of his mind, judging him unspoken just as he judged himself. “The Condemner,” Gabranth said, when the party looked to him. “Fitting that he condemns me as well.”

Gabranth kept his counsel but for Lord Larsa for a time after that, as they returned to tell the Gran Kiltias that the Esper had been dealt with, and then back through Golmore to the Feywood. They slept a last night on the _Strahl_ where it was moored, the gentle rock of the wind off of the Paramina Rift buffeting the ship and lulling them to sleep. Gabranth lay awake deep into the darkness, holding his forearm where the glyph had glowed once brightly, and then dimmed. It was now the third of the Espers he had battled since he had joined them, and each one left him more disquieted than the last, horrified and curious by turns as to what the creatures were—what the glyphs that glowed on their skin once before vanishing meant.

He did not wish to know how conscious the beast that now slept beneath his skin was, tethered and chained to him. To know _why_ Zeromus had picked him. A creature made to keep the law, turned from its tenants and into a perversion of what it had once stood for. Condemning man and god alike. Condemning itself.

The thought haunted him, until even the lightening of the sky. _Is that what he had become?_

 

 

The following morning, their rations restored from the reserves on the _Strahl_ , with what little information they had gotten from Zecht, they disembarked and took the last few steps out of the Golmore Jungle and into the Feywood proper. At first it looked remarkably similar to the jungle they had just come from, but soon enough the landscape changed. Hoarfrost crept over the ground first, freezing dead leaves into ice-rimed crystals. Then it travelled up the trees until the bases of the trunks were wrapped in a thin layer of snow, the white stark against the dull colours of the bark and wood. It was humid; fog hung in the air there near as thick as it had in the Deadlands. Despite the humidity it was cold, and more than once he caught Vaan and Penelo huddling up against one another for warmth. The further in they went the less that it looked like a forest, and the more it looked like a tundra.

“We must be running along the underside of the Rift,” Balthier explained once when the canopy overhead broke and he shielded his eyes to look up some of the sheer rock face that rose around them. “The Feywood butts up against the mountains and the heat that the jungle traps in never reaches this far because of the cold fronts that roll downhill.” Vaan looked sour.

“It’s still cold,” he said, and Balthier hesitated before slinging an arm around the young man’s shoulder, tugging him closer as they walked. It seemed to assuage him, and he stopped whining about the temperature after. Gabranth did not say it, but he was tempted to point out that the Princess was wearing even less than Vaan was and seemed unperturbed by the weather, but in turn Vaan would no doubt have pointed out that she was unperturbed by pretty much _everything_. Much like Larsa, when Ashelia put her mind to a task, the needs of the world around her seemed to melt away in pursuit of her single-minded goal.

After a time, they came to a thick wall of Mist that tumbled through the air down from the mountains and frothed along the ground. When Larsa attempted to step forward it bubbled upward until it was as high as the walls of the ravine they were walking through, and the young man sighed, arms crossed, expression of distaste clear upon his face. “Inconvenient,” he murmured at last, lips pursed.

Then behind him, the Princess gasped. “Majesty?” Bash began, but she stepped past him, hand held to her breast, unsure. As she walked forward, staring at some apparition that none of the rest of the could see, with a sudden blast the Mist before them dispersed, rushing past the Princess with enough force to lift her hair and clothes. She closed her eyes, hands and fingers outstretched, and mouthed something to the Mist as it passed.

It left Gabranth...disquieted. He, for one, was scared of what she saw.

It was done as soon as it had began, and Ashelia led the way forward, her step surer than before. On the other side of the blockade they found a monstrous, mutated marlboro that seemed to have no shortage of ways to sicken them. After they had dispatched it, Vaan went about picking through the massive corpse to find anything worth selling, and Gabranth sat crouched next to Larsa as he doubled over beside a tree, vomiting up his lunch as the last of the Rafflesia poison left his veins. A few feet away, Balthier did the same thing—they had been the two most unlucky. “I hate marlboros,” Balthier said, when he finally wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Disgusting.”

Larsa shuddered and Gabranth set a hand on the small of his back as he had another round. “Lord Larsa, should we turn back and camp?”

“No,” he managed, voice hoarse. “We should move on while there is yet daylight.” Despite the fact that he was currently sick, he was determined. “I will _not_ delay us by my weakness.”

“If you need to rest we can,” Penelo said, coming over to hand Larsa an Antidote. He drank it in one swig—he had never been a squeamish child, not the ill-tempered sort that threw tantrums rather than accept care. Then again, Larsa had possessed no nursemaid; Judge Magister Drace had all-but-raised him after his mother’s death, and she would never have allowed such behaviour to slide. She had been even more unrelenting than either Vayne or Emperor Gramis had ever been, more than Gabranth could bear to be. “I don’t think anyone would mind.”

“I am worried.” Larsa shook his head, doubling back over and bringing up nothing but spit. He coughed, and Gabranth offered him a canteen. A few feet away, Balthier was looking green again, and had crouched down on the wet, swampy ground, his boots squished into the mud, with his head between his knees as he fought it off. Across the clearing, Basch sat on a knot of roots while the Princess poured him a libation of Bacchus’ Wine. His Confusion had worn off, but he still looked flushed and woozy, and had his head in his hands. “We have lingered too long, I fear. What if Cid has beaten us here and awaits us within? Or, _worse_ —if he has already been and left?”

“He wouldn’t leave.” Balthier shook his head. “He wants to lord it over us, whatever it is he’s found in Giruvegan. If he has gotten there before us, he’ll sit and wait and waltz in at the opportune moment.” There was a sour look on the pirate’s face, and it wasn’t from being sick. “He loves a dramatic entrance. He’s not one to give it up by impatience.”

“Nevertheless, we need not turn back for my sake. This will pass.” Larsa clenched his fists. “We have delayed overlong already. While we have the light, we should keep going.” This close to the Rift, the mountains were going to cast a shadow that blocked out the sun long before it truly set, and travelling the unknown wastes in the dark was a surefire recipe for disaster.

“Then let us trade responsibilities,” Gabranth pointed out. Larsa, Balthier, and Basch had taken the brunt of fighting the Rafflesia, since they were all unable to cast magic. Gabranth had stepped in as needed, but he was still tired and discomfited from the slog against Zeromus. “You three rest. We shall deal with monsters ahead.”

When they set off again, Ashelia was once again leading the pack, Vaan hot on her heels. Fran went just behind them, her bow nocked and her ears perked at attention. Behind them, Penelo walked with Balthier and Larsa, who both still looked a little green in the gills, and Basch came last, a bit unsteady on his feet. Gabranth took rear, keeping an eye for any ambushes from behind. The monsters here were powerful; no doubt due to the sheer amount of Mist filling the air. He for one did not relish the idea of being surprised from behind by one.

The landscape again changed rapidly—the last of the jungle sloughed off until the trees were scrubby conifers or not there at all. The ground was no longer covered in hoarfrost but instead was proper snow. It came up to his shins in places, and it slowed their pace drastically. Basch, who was mostly recovered, moved ahead to take point, stomping down the snow so that Ashe could move unhindered. The first shrine rose up at them out of the Mist, as suddenly as a mirage in the desert vanishes. Ashe stopped in surprise, and they all came to a halt after her. Basch snapped to attention immediately, by her side and still, ready to move at a moment’s notice. Hesitantly, the Princess led the way into the small cupola, looking around with her hand still on the _Tournesol_ as she moved about. Nothing jumped out at them, though—no surprises awaited behind any pillars, and no traps stood untriggered.

It was Larsa who discovered the glyph marked into the floor, and he knelt beside it, setting his hand upon the stone carefully, one finger at a time. It lit up, white lines tracing all over the floor beneath them. Penelo gasped in surprise, lifting both her feet.

Larsa, Ashelia, and Vaan—of all people—went very silent. They each heard something. Larsa’s eyes sharpened as he focused on whatever it was. Ashelia cocked her head to the side, listening. Vaan mouthed the words, his brow furrowed as he tried to parse them. Larsa recited what they heard aloud for the rest of them to hear, a beat more slowly as he worked through the words in his mind. “In this sanctum shall the pilgrim find truth and illusion both. Illusion betokens the true way.”

“Seems a little counterintuitive, if you ask me.” Balthier crossed his arms as he said it. “Illusion by nature should _conceal_ , not _reveal_.”

“That’s probably the point.” Vaan hitched up his chin. “They want you to be able to see through it. I guess?”

“Semantics aren’t the point here,” Ashelia effortlessly cut the debate. “What does it mean.”

“We can’t get through unless we solve the puzzle.” Penelo shrugged. “But if you three were the only ones who heard it, you probably have to be the ones to solve it. We might not be able to see it.”

It was Larsa, unsurprisingly, who found the answer. “Look!” He called over Ashe and Vaan from where they were looking respectively, and pointed through one of the archways. It looked no different from any of the others to Gabranth, but it clearly made sense to the other two.

“That’s definitely it,” Vaan confirmed, and the Princess nodded. She led the way again—here, the snow was not as deep, as if there was something preventing it from reaching higher than their ankles. The shrines led them through the Feywood, past monsters and Mist, until they came to a colossal gate that towered, carved and embossed into the very stone of the Paramina Rift itself. Upon it was a plaque, which Ashelia read. “Gate Gigas...” the Princess whispered. “Could this be another restriction that was placed before Raithwall? I can think of no Gigas but Belias.”

“Like as not.” Basch stepped back. The rest of them followed his lead, and moments later the glyph on Ashelia’s neck, dipping down into the collar of her shirt, glowed. Belias had no lack of Mist to glut himself upon; the creature formed in seconds, standing before Ashe. Clearly, the Esper knew what to do better than his master, for instantly the centre of the gate glowed and then sunk, recessing down piece by piece with a gentle grinding until the two halves of the gate opened wide.

Beyond the gate stood the walls of a city the like of which Gabranth had never seen before. Dusk ended at the edge of the gate, as if cut off with a blade. Beyond loomed something else entirely. No snow, no wood, waited within: it was a city of glittering green and silver.

Giruvegan.

 

 

Giruvegan was not of mortals: that much he knew. The architecture soared, as intricate and finely carved as the most complex filigree. The sky glowed in pulsing red and blue, a thick fog hanging heavy over all the structures. It looked untouched for lifetimes longer than man, and yet, no moss, no lichen, no dust blanketed the surfaces around them. None of the buildings had even begun to decay. It was frozen in time, precisely as it had always been. Mist threaded through the fog, reflecting the buildings and the trespassers alike.

“I like this place not,” he said, as he stepped through into it, beside Larsa. His hackles were raised; his body on-edge. Balthier grunted, and kept walking, striding forward without fear in his step.

Gabranth noticed he did not go far past the gates.

“On the farthest shores of the river of time, shrouded deep in the roiling Mist.” Fran looked as sick as Larsa and Balthier had earlier, and Penelo, ever sensitive to those around her, stopped by the Viera, looking worriedly at Balthier, who had closed up into himself like a door slammed shut.

“What is it, Fran?”

“The Mist…” she gestured about them. It had followed them from the Feywood. “Runs thick here.” Vaan looked worried.

“Like on the Leviathan?” Gabranth frowned slightly—he did not know the details of what had happened with Ghis and the 8th fleet. No Archadian survivors had come out of that disaster, so whatever had happened within was now known only to the six companions who had lived through it. Fran, despite looking ill at ease, smiled and shook her head to reassure the young man.

“Do not worry. I will behave myself. The Mist we have passed through is cooled; here as well.” _Cooled_. She said it like the Mist usually scalded, boiled. What was the difference here from the Deadlands, from the Necrohol? Was that what had happened when Ghis had learned nothing from his predecessors and tried to force the Dawn shard’s secrets? “I sense something like the shadow here,” she continued, looking worriedly at Balthier’s back. Vaan followed her gaze, his face shuttering slightly. He was too young to have lines etching beside his eyes like they did now, worry and pain alike for Balthier.

“Venat.” The man’s voice was dead with contempt as he said it, barely looking over his shoulder at Fran. “It appears Cid has yet to arrive.” Indeed, the place look utterly undisturbed—if Gabranth was not certain that Cid had visited six years previously, he would have wondered if they were the first visitors since the Dynast King centuries before. “We’ll lie in wait for him here.”

“So we’re not going inside?”

“I think that ill-advised.” Larsa shook his head. “We know not what awaits us. Cid came searching for _something_ and found this Venat. I would rather demand answers from him if we can, than assume and find ourselves in a similar predicament.” He folded his hands. “We should camp here and wait for Doctor Cid rather than risk blindly.”

“I for one don’t want to end up twisted like the old man.” Balthier shook his head. He looked toward the Princess, to see perhaps if she was listening and debating, and then he stopped. Stepped closer. “Something there?” Ashelia had frozen and was staring deeper into the city. After a moment longer, she started walking as if she had not heard anything they had said, Basch hesitating before he followed in her shadow.

“What is it?” Penelo looked around, reaching for Vaan’s hand like her grounding point. He took her fingers in his own without looking.

“She can see him.” Vaan glanced around. “Let’s follow her.”

“Can see _who_?” Gabranth asked, but he was ignored.

They followed the Princess, who led them to a headless statue. It shuddered to life, Mist lending motion to its stone limbs, and after they dispatched it the spell Ashelia was under seemed to break at last.

“We should rest,” she admitted, still out of breath. “Rather than going ahead.” Balthier mumbled something under his breath about having _told her so_ , but didn’t complain otherwise. They retraced their steps back into the city, toward the entrance, so they could lay in wait for Cid. It was warm enough that they needed no fire, eating hard-tac and jerky from their bags in the ruins of the ancient city.

“I wonder who built this,” Larsa said to him as Gabranth unbuckled and stripped the armour from his legs, his scale mail already shed for the evening. “I’ve never read of it in any history.”

“If Raithwall came here with the Gigas, it cannot be any younger than centuries.” Gabranth replied, setting aside his plate for the night. “And yet, it has not decayed.”

“The Mist hasn’t consumed it either, like it did Nabradia.” Larsa then added, “But Fran said it was cooled. Perhaps it was built in tandem with the Mist, rather than the Mist coming here after?”

“It is Jagd.” Basch looked pensive as he said it. “But perhaps this is why it’s Jagd.” He turned his eyes out unto the city. “Maybe the Mist followed the city, and not the other way around.” They knew so little of the Mist—how and why it formed, how it worked, how its power could be productively harnessed to create chaos at the same level as Nabudis or the Leviathan.

“Mortals make not the Mist. Mortals make not Giruvegan either.” Fran tossed her head. “I do not wish to meet those that do.”

Balthier spoke it for all of them. “ _Venat_.”

 

 

The sun never set in Giruvegan, so it never rose, either. The skies remained glowing with red and blue Mist swirling in esoteric patterns. The fog pulsed around their campsite. None slept well that night, but eventually all did sleep. Even Larsa, who looked worried and aged beyond his years, dropped off eventually, tucked up against Gabranth’s bedroll, his dark hair spilling over his face. When Gabranth slept, his dreams were Mist-soaked and dark and all tumbled into incoherence upon waking, more like fever delusions than rest.

He was the first awake when he rose, the rest of the party sprawled out around the fire. Vaan was spreadeagled, face down in his bedroll, one arm tossed around Penelo and the other over Balthier’s empty bedroll.

Or, perhaps, he was _not_ the first awake.

Quietly, as to not rouse Larsa, Gabranth sat up and looked around, searching for a figure in the Mist. His eyes caught eventually on Balthier, sitting on the ground next to the Way Stone up ahead, hunched and staring over the fog-shrouded water. For a moment he hesitated, and then, Gabranth stood. Looked toward Larsa, who remained undisturbed, fingers curled in the cloth of his bedroll, and then walked off toward Balthier.

“You should not stray so far.” Gabranth said, when he approached close enough to be heard while he kept his voice low, not wanting to wake any of their other companions. If he was the only one to see that the pirate had slipped off, then he was then responsible for telling him to not be foolish.

“I’m not that far.” Balthier didn’t turn toward him. This close, Gabranth could see his chin was resting on his fist, and he was playing with one of his earrings, turning the metal in circles between his fingers. “If I was ambushed, it wouldn’t matter if it was here or there. I’d be just as dead either way.” He remained quiet, and Gabranth hesitated, looking back at Larsa.

If Larsa had been here he would have known what to say. How to speak to Balthier, try to soften the blow of such a constant reminder of the loss of his father. Larsa was diplomatic, kind, thoughtful. Gabranth was abrasive as sandpaper and just as liable to leave marks. But...if he said and did nothing, he knew what Larsa would have said. He did not want the ire and disgust in the young man’s eyes to be turned on him.

After a moment longer of indecision, he sat down beside the younger man, draping his legs over the side of the city down toward the water that lapped below. They sat in silence for a time. Giruvegan was lifeless. But for the occasional gentle splash of the water where it bumped the stone when the Mist disturbed it, the city was silent and dead around them. There was not even enough of a breeze to cause waves or to break the near-still surface of the lake.

“Did you know,” Balthier began at last, “About Venat? Did Cid or Vayne tell you?”

“No.” Gabranth folded his hands on his lap. “I had long suspected your father’s madness to be more than it seemed, but I had never known what it was that he saw. I merely felt...a presence. It never seemed to have any interest in me.”

“I thought they would have told you.” Balthier frowned. “At least, after Nalbina.”

“I was a convenient pawn at Nalbina. Nothing more. Pawns need not know the minds of their masters. Vayne had me, so he made use of me.” Had he been stronger then, had he not wanted to enact vengeance on his brother more than he wanted peace, he would have stopped it. As it stood, his anger had ruled him, and as a consequence, Raminas had died, and Dalmasca had fallen. “Whatever Venat has told Cid is the reason all that came to pass. Even two years ago, as I am sure you remember, he already paid more heed to the whispers of his shadow than any other. It was only a matter of time before Vayne did so as well.”

“And so my father’s folly has lead to the downfall of kingdoms and the deaths of thousands.” Baltheir looked sick. “Perhaps, had I stayed—“

“You could never have stopped him.” The truth was a bitter drought, but it had to be downed nonetheless. “Do you truly think he would have paid you any heed?”

“No.” Balthier laughed, sharp and loud and violent. “He never cared for anyone or anything more than he did his creations and his experiments. No, I know better.” He glanced at Gabranth, and once again he was struck by how closely the young man resembled his father. “If I had stayed, I would have ended up like you.”

It was a sobering thought, and one Gabranth could not refute.

 

 

When Cid showed no sign of arriving after the rest of their companions had risen, Ashe continued the lead the way deeper into the city, past the guardian that had turned once more to stone. In the utter darkness past the end of the city, the only light was the constellations of stria in the crystal that floated, preserved in stone ahead of them. It was nethicite: more and greater than any other in Ivalice, as vast and vaster than all of the city of Archades. Fran was right—wherever they were, wherever Cid had sent them, it was beyond the realm of mortals.

It was Vaan, Penelo tightly holding his hands, who discovered that past the edge of brick and mortar great glowing green glyphs led the way forward, solid beneath their feet but hanging suspended over endless nothing and dark.

“I can’t shake the feeling we’re somewhere we’re not meant to be.” Penelo spoke, her voice a hush as they walked. When Gabranth looked at her, she kept darting glances toward the crystal.

“My sentiments exactly,” Larsa agreed.

Vaan snorted.“Yeah, it’s exciting.” Gabranth made a face at his words. Save him from the whims of boys not yet grown who had no sense of their own mortality.

Penelo glared at Vaan and punched him in the arm. “Yeah, like you aren’t scared of falling forever if the path vanishes.”

“I’m not!”

“You are not troubled by the unknown?” Basch sounded incredulous. “Who can say what lies ahead? We may encounter the very creators of nethicite.” And that was a sobering thought. Gabranth held _Highway Star_ tightly—he had not even thought they might discover that waiting for them. More shadows—more Venats?

Vaan shrugged, unperturbed. “Yeah, I don’t know what we’ll find.” He certainly had the carefree attitude suited to being a lawless pirate. Vaan laughed. “I like it better that way!”

Basch shook his head, hands on his hips. “You’re sounding more the sky pirate every day.”

Vaan rolled his eyes. “That’s the _point_ , Basch.”

The path led them down, Way Stone to Way Stone, until they were no longer walking in the impenetrable darkness of the void but were surrounded by the Mist-soaked light of the crystal. Inside it, no doubt, as Larsa pointed out, touching the glowing stone walls that were carved around them. It was nothing like anywhere any kind of creature could live—and indeed, the monsters that inhabited the long-vacant halls were like nothing that existed in the Ivalice he knew. The paths were so winding, the crystal and its Mist so blinding, that finding their way was almost impossible. There was no way to map out the paths they followed, and before long Gabranth was lost.

At last, though, they came to a platform that overlooked a single, pure piece of nethicite. It looked larger than a house, but given their distance, was no doubt larger still. It was more the size of the _Strahl_ , and it poured Mist like blood gushed from a gut wound, so thick that breathing was like inhaling water, the Mist filling your lungs and making reflections that tricked your eyes.

“I’ve never seen this much Mist.” Penelo’s voice was frightened. She looked to Fran, more than a little nervous. “Are you all right?” Sometime, he would have to ask what had happened on the Leviathan that had left the girl so worried about the Viera and the Mist.

Fran nodded. “I am fine. Thank you.”

Ashelia was staring at the nethicite. “Is that...” she seemed disbelieving. “Nethicite?” Fran made a quiet noise of assent, and the Princess folded her arms. “With that much nethicite in one’s grasp—“

“You could destroy all of Ivalice.” Fran’s voice dripped with contempt, her words scathing as they cut apart the true heart of the Princess’ intent. “If you wished it.” Ashelia looked shaken and could not meet the Viera’s eye, and Gabranth felt...more than a little hesitant. A look at Larsa’s face revealed that the young man seemed as discomfited by that idea as Gabranth himself was. _Peace_ , he insisted Ashelia wanted. _Peace_ was the purpose of all their efforts. Peace and a detente with Vayne, weapon against weapon. Lay down yours and I shall lay down mine.

For the first time, teeth grit, Gabranth wondered if Ashelia wanted vengeance more than she wanted Dalmasca restored. If this journey would end with blood spilt upon the lands of Archades, with an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.

He would have done it; would she?

 

 

An Esper awaited them, and then after was ever more glowing walkways and empty, Mist-soaked architecture that in no way resembled anything a Hume would put together. It was a sepulchre, littered with the quite literal ghosts of whatever long-lost civilisation had designed its hallowed halls.

At last, they came to a Way Stone. Upon it was carved an ancient inscription in a script that Gabranth could not read, although Fran was able to translate it aloud with some little difficulty. “We have nowhere to go but forward,” Ashelia said at last. “Whatever these Undying may be, makers of Nethicite or shadows or not, we have come too far to turn back.”

“Then make your choice, Princess.” Balthier crossed his arms, his face unreadably ill-tempered. “You brought us.”

“And I will,” the Princess snapped back at him—and touched the stone, impulsive and haughty, her anger getting the best of her not for neither the first nor last time. It glowed, the glyph under their feet stirred to life, and Gabranth had one last look at the decaying grandeur of Giruvegan before they were spirited away into the utter unknown.

Beyond, the sky stretched from horizon to horizon, the great blue bowl of it as vast as the world itself was. At first, he thought they were in Ivalice as they had known it, and then Penelo gasped in surprise. “Look at the suns!” She whispered, and Gabranth realised with dawning horror that there were _two_ suns casting dual shadows over them.

“What sort of madness—“ Basch whispered, startling next to him, as his realisation followed her own. Gabranth set his hand on his brother’s shoulder, to steady him, and his other on Larsa’s, keeping the young man close.

Ahead of them, Ashelia stood alone, one hand clasped before her breast, silent. As if waiting. And then, as she looked around, frightened, it dawned on him.

“She cannot see us,” Larsa whispered in understanding. “Lady Ashe!” He called, trying to step forward, but he wiggled vainly under Gabranth’s hand as he held the young man back to safety, unable to move. “Ashe!”

“Fear not, princess of Dalmasca.” said a voice, as deep as the far ocean and as old as time, that left Gabranth feeling ill. Larsa subsided, gripping his hand tight, looking around wildly, his sharp eyes trying to pick out the source of the voice. Ashelia did the same, looking about as blindly as they. She could not see or hear them—but could not find the voice either. “We Occuria have chosen you, and you alone.”

“Shadows,” Fran whispered, even as Vaan snorted under his breath, “We got that, thanks.”

The Princess seemed at last to find the source of the voice and looked forward, even as Gabranth felt the horrible, sickening sensation of being watched, _touched_ , by something he could not see. Basch, next to him, looked violently unsettled, and Larsa turned toward him, trusting in the solid guard at his back, there no matter what. Fran wobbled, worryingly, but Penelo took the Viera’s elbow and held tight, let the woman lean against Balthier on her other side.

“Ashelia B’nargin Dalmasca.” The voice continued, Ashe staring straight forward, having at last come face-to-face with their otherworldly hosts, “We see your heart desires power, and power most holy shall we grant. Seek you the Sun-cryst, slumb’ring star. In tower on distant shore it dreams. The mother of all nethicite, the source of its unending power.”

“They certainly get to brass tacks quickly,” Balthier muttered, arms crossed. “No artistry, no artifice. No wonder Doctor Cid likes them. They never shut up.”

These shadows apparently had little and less interest in the Princess’ companion—the creatures had continued their dialogue with Ashleia as if Balthier had never spoken, who gasped as if thrilled by the potentialities of what they were promising her—thrilled, aye, or horrified. Gabranth could never tell with her. But, when she spoke (“Such power exists?”) Ashelia did not particularly sound pleased by that proposition. If anything, he would have placed her words as _nervous_.

“Have we not enough nethicite to go around?” Larsa shook his head. “Fighting fire with fire shall make the blaze only burn the brighter.”

“No doubt that is what they want.” Balthier sneered. “Remember what my father hath wrought with Venat at his heels. Here is just yet more of their machinations, now placed upon our Princess.” Once again, the conversation outside of their huddle had continued as if they were not even there, and now Gabranth felt a prickling up his spine as the invisible shades did something, and Fran hissed between her teeth, heels of her palms pressed into her eyes as the Mist around them seethed.

“The treaty held with kings of old is but a mem’ry, cold and still. With you we now shall treat anew, to cut a run for hist’ry’s flow.” As the voice spoke it, out of thin air before the Princess coalesced a blade, longer and sharper than the Blade of Kings, more intricate as well. It spun together, pulsed out of the Mist, Occurian instantly in design. It looked like Venat in a blade—no doubt their intention.

For a moment, Gabranth wondered if the Princess could even lift it. It was her own height—even with her warrior’s strength, a broadsword of that size would be no easy weapon to wield. Did they know what weight they gave her; or was this a sword they would have wielded rather than one meant for mortal hands?

“Now take this sword, this Treaty-Blade. Occurian seal, mark of your worth.” Basch, beside him, ground his teeth. Doubtless at the idea that Ashelia needed any sort of _mark_ of her worth, when she wore it across her shoulders like a golden mantle, as tangible as her breath, galled. “Cut deep the Cryst and seize your Shards. Wield Dynast-King’s power! Destroy Venat!”

Gabranth could fain hear the breath go out of the party as the voice spoke the shadow’s name.

“But Venat—“ Ashelia began, the confusion in her voice speaking for all of them, although she did not know they stood behind her, “Venat is an Occurian, A being like you.”

“Venat is a heretic!” The voice screamed, like metal scraping metal, nails across a chalk slate, the lot of them were basted to staggering with something more than mere air. The Princess threw up her hands to protect her eyes, dug in her heels to keep her feet. Gabranth grit his teeth when a great pulse of Mist struck them all, Larsa rocking backwards into him, still holding tight to the young man, wrapping his arm further around his charge’s shoulders. He did not trust these things; these invisible shadows in their empty world who charged their chosen few. He certainly did not trust them with Larsa, even as the tension became palpable.

“Well,” Balthier whispered after a tense moment, “That’s interesting.”

An understatement.

“The nethicite is ours to give, to chosen bearer or to none. The heretic trespassed and set the rose of knowledge in Man’s hand.”

“Manufacted nethicite,” Larsa whispered, in awestruck realisation. Penelo gasped, and Balthier’s eyes got tight and sharp, his teeth ground audibly. At last, Doctor Cid’s motives finally lay bare for all of them to see. Layer by layer, his endgame was being peeled back to show the dangerous potential of the world he was now trying to crack yawning open with this monstrous magic.

“With imitations they profane, it is anathema to us. We give you now the Stone and task. Administer judgment: destroy them all!”

It all went very quiet suddenly. His ears rang, the words seemed unfathomable. “Judgment?” Ashelia spoke, but her voice seemed very far away. All Gabranth could be sure of was the rapid beat of his heart and his own ragged breath, and Larsa holding his hand so tight the young man’s nails were digging near to painful into the meat of his palm through the leather of his gloves. Larsa was as tense as a stag on the hunt, frightened to insensibility, a cornered animal. Or, perhaps, that was Gabranth. “Destroy them all? The Empire?”

His stomach felt as to lead, and Larsa whispered, his voice cracking with emotion, “ _No_!” Of course; of course it would come to this. Gabranth, Vayne, the Empire had been the architect of all Ashelia’s suffering, all her sorrows. Now she would do away with them as she had wanted all along, crush them to dust and viscera under her heel with the Occurian stones as the boot. _Peace_ , Larsa’s precious peace, had never been in her equation. It had always been fated to end in one way: death, and the bodies to pay in blood for the ruins of her beloved Dalmasca.

“The humes ever skew hist’ry’s weave,” the voice continued, from far away. Far away, past the rushing blood and the horrible, crumbling, dawning realisation that Larsa had run from his homeland and Gabranth had abandoned his post in pursuit of an imagined peace that would now no-doubt be cast aside as dirty laundry by a fickle girl hardly old enough to rule. _You could destroy all of Ivalice_ , he remembered Fran’s words from inside the Great Crystal.

Gabranth would have done it.

“With haste they move through too-short lives. Driven to err by base desires, t’ward waste and wasting on they run. Undying, we Occuria light the path for wayward sons of man.” And make the call of life and death; massacre thousands of innocents for the sins of two men? Do away with the lives, livelihoods, memories, wants and needs of Archadian citizens whose only sin had been that they had been born on one side of a border and not the other? “Oft did we pass judgment on them so that Ivalice might endure.” The needs of the many before the needs of the few; spare the rod and spoil the child; nip it in the bud.

Next to him, Gabranth could feel Larsa shaking—with rage or terror, he was not quite sure.

“Eternal, we are hist’ry’s stewards, to set the course and keep it true. The chosen is our hand, our fist, to let live some and crush the rest.” So Dalmasca, the Resistance, they would survive in Ashelia’s Ivalice. Her purge would no doubt preserve those ideals she loved most. “Princess, you have been chosen. Take revenge against those who stole your kingdom. Fulfil your role as saviour. Attain to your birthright!”

The scales weighed. They found Archades wanting, fated for destruction. Or, perhaps, they found Ashelia wanting, that the Princess would reach first for condemnation when granted the chance.

Ashelia took the sword. And damned them all.

 

 

It was eerily silent. Quieter than a grave. The Occuria had not merely left; they had vanished utterly. With them they had taken both suns, taken the wind, taken the Mist. Now all that remained was the yawning absence in their wake and the realisation that Archades would die for his sins. The Princess stood where she had moments before, frozen, her shoulders hunched up to her ears and both her fists in a white-knuckled rictus around the hilt of her Occurian sword. She was breathing so loudly that he could hear it, hyperventilating, in this place with no breeze and no life.

Vaan was the first to join her, shouting her name and running to her side. His appearance seemed to finally shake her from her reverie, and she stared at him, apparently so stunned she could not find words. “What’s with these Occuria? What gives them the right to tell you what to do?” Vaan, as ever, had no time to beat around the bush. His words woke Larsa as well, and the young man pulled at last from Gabranth’s hold, walked forward, his fingers laced tightly.

“Will you take revenge, as they ask?” Fran joined him, and even she sounded frightened. Ashe looked up, bemusement writ plain upon her face—and indeed, it made sense, as she had not been able to see the party behind her. She had no idea they had watched it play out: she did not know that they had been there to witness Archadia’s death sentence delivered from immortal hands to their chosen instrument of vengeance, and her willingness with only base protests before she agreed to see it done.

“We could not see them, but we heard the Occuria speak.” Basch explained, approaching more cautiously than had Vaan or Fran. He glanced to Fran, whose mute, closed expression bespoke the same worry writ plain upon his face. “They may be gods, but we are the arbiters of our destiny.” And then, Basch said the last words that Gabranth would have ever expected, from the man who had the most reason to wish for bloody revenge. He looked his would-be Queen dead in the eye, face stony, and said: “Your Highness, I am against this.”

Gabranth only realised his mouth had fallen open after he had begun to stare at Basch in mute astonishment.

“The Empire must pay,” Basch quieted, and Gabranth noticed that his brother did not look at him; could not bear to admit that he existed. But, Gabranth had died for Basch long ago. It was easy enough to avoid seeing the spectre from the corner of your eye. “But destruction?”

“Please,” Larsa’s voice was soft, and Ashe turned around to look at the boy. Before her, he seemed so small, for the first time. Larsa was just a child, a boy—a _boy_ , whose father now lay dead and buried, whose brother’s lust for power would now see his country and people destroyed in some sick sort of honour of their father’s dying wishes for Larsa to remain free of the Solidor taint. A boy, against a woman grown with the power of the gods at her fingertips.

Gabranth stepped behind Larsa, wishing he could do more than just become a wall to block out the darkness that hid behind Larsa’s idealised world.

“Lady Ashe, destruction will do nought but create an endless cycle. Our children will yet be paying for our hubris should we be so foolish as to reap what has been sown.” Gabranth realised that Larsa was speaking in the third person—like any of them but Ashe possessed the capability to prevent the inevitable fate that was so fast rushing up to meet them. “I like not this talk of vengeance and revenge. We came here to find a way to foster peace, Ashe. Not create discord.”

Ashe looked chagrined, but before she could speak or respond, Penelo, looking around, came up behind her. “Um,” said the girl, clearly hesitant to butt in, “Does anyone know what happened to Doctor Cid?” Gabranth blinked—in the horror of the revelation that destruction was Archadia’s lot, he had completely forgotten their original errand. “Wasn’t he saying he’d be here?”

It seemed the time for counselling Ashe to peace had passed, and the pressing worries of the world outside their floating island were beginning to weigh in against them once again. He was glad for it—Gabranth wanted to fall to his knees, beg her to forgive the monstrous injury he had done her country. He would gladly slake her thirst with his own blood, slit his throat with no question, if Archadia—if the people—if _Larsa_ —

“He should have arrived by now.” Basch looked, in consternation, to Balthier, and Gabranth just. Breathed. He was the least of their problems; when the time came and Ashe held in her hands the ruinous Occurian stone, he would place his neck against her blade. Before that, let Larsa retain his happy image of an imagined peace.

“And I should’ve realised by now.” Balthier sighed, hands on his hips, a scowl curling his handsome, expressive face, as he looked around at the panorama around them. “He’s not coming. He laid out the bait, and we bit.” Basch and Ashe looked at the pirate with equal expressions of confusion, his brother’s brows drawn tight. “Remember what he said?” Gabranth was all-too-familiar with Archadian prevarications; he had already put together the pieces. Their Dalmascan friends, though, were too forthright for Draklor designs. “He wanted Ashe to get the stone,” Balthier explained. “He and his Venat wanted that all along. That’s why he flaunted his nethicite at Draklor, then reeled us in with his stories about Giruvegan. It was all to bring Ashe to the Occuria.”

“But wait—“ Penelo looked to Ashe, still holding her sword white-knuckled, “if we got ahold of the nethicite, wouldn’t that be bad for the Empire?” Balthier made a face that read of the fact that he had no more insight into his father than did Penelo.

“Maybe he wants to see what happens when foes with nethicite collide? That’d be just like _Doctor_ Cid.” His venom was poisonous.

“What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object,” Gabranth put in, his first words spoken aloud since the realisation that for his own sins, Archadia would be smote from the face of Ivalice. They, to his credit, did not tremble. “What better way to test his manufacted invention than to unleash it upon deifacted nethicite and let the gods decide the winner?” The gods had spoken now, though—it would be Ashe with her fresh-cut shards that would emerge triumphant in a match of stone to stone.

Ashe looked between all of them and then closed her eyes, bowed her head. What choices lay before her but ruin no matter which way she turned? Either she damned Dalmasca by refusing the Occurian gifts, letting Cid and Vayne run rampant, or she took their stones to mete out her revenge. “I will search out the Sun-cryst.” When she at last spoke her voice was hard with resolve, and Gabranth was treated to the strange and displacing sensation of feeling his life crumble around him, and the walls of his grave rise up to meet him.

It was not the first time.

 

 

Their agreed destination was unspoken after they left; the good humour had been sapped out of the party by their encounter with the monstrous creatures that demanded Ashelia’s obeisance. They made for Balfonheim, and then, for wherever the Sun-cryst slept, waiting for their destined arrival. All the way back to the port, Gabranth could not look at anyone. He felt deadened inside, strange and sorrowful and—hollow. It was very similar to the way he had felt in the days after Landis had fallen, when Basch had gone. Those memories were poignant and sharp for yet all the years that had passed. It was why he could not bring himself to forgive the other man; he would never be able to forget the emptiness of grief when he had lost not only his country, but his brother as well.

It was a cold comfort that the princess seemed as wronged as he himself did. He could not fault her, for in her place, he would have damned them the same. Yet, she had not come on this journey to be made the puppet of creatures as cold and unfeeling as the metal of the sword that they had gifted to her. There was a sensation that Gabranth was even more intimate with: being the pawn of others.

He wondered, privately, how long she had known she danced to the tune of another.

Balfonheim, when they at last arrived back, was in a fervour. Balthier docked the _Strahl_ at the aerodome, and it was Larsa who stumbled off of the gangplank first, not waiting for the rest of them. There was fear in his eyes— “Surely,” Larsa whispered, grasping at the hand Penelo proffered, an anchor in the storm, “My Lord brother has not moved so soon?” He looked to Gabranth, like he somehow had the answers Larsa wanted.

Gabranth had no answers for anyone, least of all himself.

“No, this seems like something else—look, there’s no martial law, business is still going. Whatever’s happened, I’d hazard a guess it has less to do with Vayne and all the more to do with that lead Reddas was following when last we spoke.” Balthier rolled his neck as he spoke, grimacing. “Come, let us to the Manse. Answers are almost certainly awaiting us there.”

Indeed, when they arrived the place was in an uproar, and Vaan dodged sky pirates rushing in and out to open a door to let them all into the halls that led to Reddas’ office. Even these were packed with people, the interior doors thrown open wide and offering them a view of the bustle inside.

“Send fishing dories if need be, I care not.” Reddas’ deep, booming voice met them, and Vaan led the way into his office, ducking under someone rushing out with their arms full of maps. He was agitated, pacing back and forth, sideburns bristling. “Glossair engines are as good to us as sky to a fish. Leave what boats have foundered. I want _souls_ saved, not driftwood!” His three lackeys raced out at the end of this tirade, and Basch carefully pulled Ashe out of their way, the princess startled from the same reverie that held Gabranth in its claws.

Reddas turned, and looked unsurprised to see them. “Our armada ran afoul of bad water near the Ridorana Cataract,” he explained, crossing his arms. “All engines stopped asudden, becalmed. Trouble with a Mist as thick as death, it seems.” He shook his head. “Those seas _are_ Jagd. I expected airship trouble, not a fleet foundering midst the waves.” He rubbed his bald head as he spoke, sighed. “Tell me of what happened in Giruvegan.” He watched Ashe, and Gabranth snuck a look at the Princess, to gauge her face.

Ashelia’s tan skin was still tinged grey with pallor, her eyes sharp and her lips tight. Reddas looked at her for a long moment, and then the tension sapped from him, replaced by something else. Anxiety, perhaps.

“From the lay of your eyes,” he hazarded at last, “I measure all did not go well. Cid...was he false, as I feared?”

“Yes.” Ashelia spoke with intensity; the time for equivocating was gone. “But we may have caught a glimpse of his true intent. We may—“ she paused, and glanced to Balthier, who could not bear to look at her as she spoke of his father, “Nay,” Ashelia corrected, “We  _can_ be certain that we know what it is Cid searches for.”

“Tell me all that happened,” Reddas prompted her gently. “You look as if you have much need to unburden your chest.”

By the end of the Princess’ explanation, Reddas had sunk into the chair behind his desk, all his agitation from the stranded ships gone out from him. Instead, he had closed inward with the same horrible understanding that had dawned on both Gabranth and Ashelia. Her decision here spelled the doom for millions, and Reddas—Zecht—bore no less of the blame than did Gabranth himself.

“So the deifacted nethicite was only a fragment?” Reddas mused at last, stroking his beard as he thought. “I know not of these Occuria, and I care to know even less.”

“If we strike the Sun-cryst with the Sword of Kings, no new Stone may be born.” Fran put in, trying to assuage all their fears, although Gabranth thought her optimism was for naught. “We say the Sun-cryst is the source of all nethicite’s power. If we might break it, the Dusk Shard would be as a thing lifeless. As for the manufacted nethicite, who can say?”

“Oh, that will work long after we’re gone.” Balthier sniffed. “If there’s anything Doctor Cid ever does correctly, it’s build a thing to never break. We’d only be so lucky if we could put those back in the closet he pulled them from.”

“And that is only if the Princess stays her hand,” Gabranth murmured, loud enough that only Larsa could hear him, the young Lord setting a hand gently upon his elbow. “If else—“

“There is another way,” Balthier continued. “We use the Treaty-Blade to cut a new Stone to fight the Dusk Shard and the manufacted stones.”

“And doom Archades with it.” Larsa said, his quiet voice startlingly loud in the silence. “We cut that stone, we bring fire to fight fire, and she will burn to the ground.” Reddas looked to Larsa and then back to Ashelia, shaking his head sharply at her and Balthier.

“Would you like to know the best use of nethicite? Will or nil, I’ll tell you. You pick it up—and throw it away.” His words echoed the warning in Larsa’s, and the mood of the room turned even further down. The threat of war, of slaughter, hung like an axe above Ashelia’s throat: a blade that Gabranth had hung there himself. (Or, perhaps, 'twas the other way 'round.)

“Either way,” at last Vaan spoke, as unwitting (or uncaring) as always of the greater stakes that burdened their minds, “We gotta find this Sun-cryst first, right? Don’t we?” He scratched the back of his neck. “Arguing about it won’t do any good if we never even get to it. Across the sea…in a tower on a distant shore...” Zecht sat up abruptly from the pensive posture he had assumed, chin on his fist, and looked sharply at Vaan, who seemed surprised by his motion. “Reddas?”

“Familiar words, Vaan. I saw something very much of the sort in some documents I chanced upon during my visit to Draklor. The Naldoan Sea, the Ridorana Cataract, and the Pharos lighthouse. Twas there I sent my fleet, to fish out the truth behind these words...and was there we caught trouble. That is where they sit, becalmed, in those _deviled_ waters.”

“Then proof is ours. This lighthouse on the Naldoan Sea is the tower on the distant shore.” Basch spoke, looking amongst them all. “The Mist that becalmed your ships is a grimmer, yet clearer, sign than any we might have hoped for. The Sun-cryst is there.” The Princess didn’t look comforted by his words. If anything, she looked distraught; perhaps she, too, had hoped they might not find their destination.

“That’s all well and good, but how do we get there?” Balthier finally stirred himself enough to rise from where he’d leaned against a wall, looking amongst all of them. “Those seas are in Jagd, as Reddas said. If fishing vessels are out...”

“Try putting this one in your ship.” Reddas tossed Balthier a stone, no larger than his fist. “’Tis a skystone made to resist Jagd.”

Balthier looked at the item in his hand, like it might be ready to catch aflame as he spoke. He sneered. “More spoils from the Draklor labs, is it? Why not use it yourself?”

“My ship’s a Bhujerban model—it will not work. But, should it fit the _Strahl_ , she’ll fly in Jagd.” It would fit the _Strahl_ ; the stone and ship were all but sisters. They came from the same madman’s mind. They were guaranteed their ship to Ridorana now.

Balthier looked like he wanted to shatter the damn thing more than put it in his ship.

“Lady Ashe.” Reddas turned at last to the Princess, who had been near silent for the whole conversation, her thoughts turned deeply inwards. “I would accompany Your Highness...if you do not object.”

“Oh,” Gabranth snapped, “That seems a good plan. And you think your help is needed?” Reddas turned to look at him, expressive face flat with temper.

“I have as much stake in these things as do any among your number.” He cocked an eyebrow at Gabranth. “Surely another Judge Magister is not so out of place? At least I was unwitting of what was placed in my hands; you knew whose blood you stained your palms with.” Gabranth reeled as if he had been slapped.

“We are in your care, if Lady Ashe has no objections.” Larsa stepped in, setting a hand on Gabranth’s wrist to still him, looking to the princess. She shook her head mutely—and so another Archadian joined their haggard number. “We know why it is you do so much for us, and we thank you. The Nabudis Deadlands—“

“Speak of it not,” Zecht said quietly. “’Tis best left as a memory forever burnt into my heart.”

Gabranth _envied_ him the chance to let it go. His sins faced him over the dinner table when they ate, and in the mirror he looked in when he awoke. His sins were the face he wore and the blood on his blades. His sins were in the scars shaped into his brother’s shoulders. Zecht had the chance to run. Zecht had the chance to change who he was.

Gabranth would bear his until he died.

 

 

Two detours prevented them from going straight to the Pharos, even if there was an undercurrent of anxiety for motion that filled all of them: they were fighting the clock, and desperation was beginning to take more and more of a hold. However, Reddas was able to supply them both with knowledge of two more Espers that had awoken. Volatile things, they could not be left unclaimed.

So first, to Giruvegan, the city no less unnerving their second trip in nearly as many days. Reddas, who had not accompanied them the first time, practically had his hackles raised. “No mortal was meant to walk on this unhallowed ground,” he said, when they entered into the monumental void in which slept the Great Crystal. “I can see what here could have driven Cid mad.”

“I only wish he was mad.” Balthier snarled, reloading his gun after he’d shot a vivian through. “If it was just _madness_ , maybe I could bring myself to forgive him.” He holstered his gun and stalked on, all fury and tight-lipped rage. “But he’s just made himself a monster of his own choice.”

“It’s always harder when they choose that path,” Basch said, setting a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, Balthier deflating slightly. “Knowing doesn’t give you any room for absolution.” Gabranth felt ill, and pushed past his brother and the princess.

“I’ll go clear us a path,” he snapped, low, under his breath. It seemed lately that combat was the only thing in which he could lose himself. Constantly now, the ghost of his deeds two years previously hung over his head. It was like the noose was around his neck and rather than hang him with it, fate continued to jerk on the rope, tantalising him with his death but never giving him that release. So he put his anguished energy into combat, into anything that would take his mind off of the way that Ashelia looked at him when she held tight the hilt of the Treaty-Blade.

It was infuriating and deserved in turns, that the fate of Archades should hinge on Gabranth, when the fate of Dalmasca had done the same once before. Then, he had tipped the scales as ordered, and blood had been the price they’d all paid. Now, he would have done anything if the measure of his sins had been lifted from the side of the Empire, that they might be weighed without the deadweight of his damaged worth. It was in this morass of ugly emotions that Gabranth sliced his way through two dozen or more monsters. They’d done it once before already, but a place as devoid of mortals as Giruvegan was going to go back to crawling with monsters, and when he reached the Haalmikah Water-steps, Gabranth finally came to a halt, sweating heavily despite the chill in the air there, out of breath and his blades caked with viscera.

A look back, up the path, revealed that the party was still above him on the Addha steps, and Gabranth pulled free his canteen, drank as he waited. It was quiet, this far down. The sounds of life, muted in the city proper, were simply _gone_ on the steps, replaced with the noiseless vacuum of the void. Balthier was right: it _could_ drive a man to madness. That soundless quality was dampened by their party, as alive as they could be. Even from as far down as Gabranth was, he could hear Vaan laughing, and Basch’s deep voice carrying as he recounted some tale or another to Reddas. He could see, if he looked hard enough, Larsa walking hand-in-hand with Penelo, more a member of their company than Gabranth ever had been.

They had asked for Larsa, not for Gabranth. He was just a reminder of the spilled blood that had set them on their journey.

After a time longer, the party rejoined him, and Gabranth fell in at the back of the group, still recovering his strength. They moved on into the Great Crystal, and this time, found themselves lost within minutes, the endless hallways and the pulsing light of the Mist leaving Gabranth with a headache. Even with the map that Fran was keeping track of, they were turned around completely. “You think this is intentional?” Vaan asked, scratching his head. “Are we supposed to be lost?”

“I don’t think we’re _supposed_ to be here,” Penelo snapped back. “The Occuria probably would like it if we never found our way out.” Vaan looked stricken.

“Wait, you seriously think so—“

“I think it is this way,” Fran interrupted, looking up. “Vaan, come with me.” They wandered off again, leading the way through the Way Stones that marked the road forward and all its myriad paths. Fran was making use of Vaan’s near-boundless energy to duck forward and back if they found a dead-end, and the rest of them took their time. Balthier spoke with Larsa and the Princess, Basch and Penelo were dealing with monsters, and Gabranth and Reddas—

Gabranth and Reddas walked quietly at the back of the group, Reddas snacking on jerky, Gabranth on-edge as he had been now ever since the moment he had heard the Occuria command Ashe to take up their blade and use it to cast down Archades as the ill-fated damned. “What do you think of Lady Ashe’s choice?” Reddas asked after a time. Gabranth grunted, noncommittally. “You do not care for whether or not she should choose revenge and cast Archades into the same bloody pit that is Nabudis?”

“You are the one between us who should have the greatest stake in that,” Gabranth replied. “You’re the one that began all this, for ill or no.”

“ _I_ am the one who was handed the bloody knife,” Reddas was almost uncaring, the lack of emotion in his voice. “As were you. I at least did it unknowingly, rather than driving in the blade with intent.” Gabranth bit his tongue. “Of course I care.” The other man’s voice softened. “That is why I have agreed to come with her, to see the Pharos. None know better than I what her choice should cause, should she pick revenge. I would happily die to see that be stopped.”

“Then do it.” Gabranth stopped. The rest of the group, far enough ahead of them, had gone through a Way Stone. The two Judges were left alone together, staring each other down. Two years ago, they had both willingly burned the remains of their former lives—and they had lived with it for two years, rather than escape through death. As tempting as that was. Reddas wore his mistakes like a mantle of grief, Gabranth wore his as a noose.

Zecht stared at him, blue eyes unreadable. Gabranth lifted his chin, bared the line of his throat above his armour. “You will not live to see her take base revenge?”

“She is not the type.”

“Then kill me.” Zecht stopped. Gabranth smiled; bitter, all teeth. “You think she will not pick revenge, when I stand before her as a memory of her father’s murder and her country’s enslavement? Nay; you have the wool near as over your eyes as does my brother. Ashe would rather see me dead than any part of Dalmasca restored.”

“Then you do not know her at all.”

“If you think you do, then kill me, Foris. Cease this majestic farce, and see the war done before it is ever even begun.”

Zecht laughed, and it was cruel. “If you so wish death in order to absolve your sins, Noah, your own blade should suffice. You know Lady Ashe not at all, and Lord Larsa even less, if you think your death will let them both walk free. Nay—“ Zecht sneered. “We both live. That is the path we have chosen. Gods only would be so good as to have let us see death before we found our roles in this play. We’ll both bring our brutal souls to the end of this, one way or another.”

“Do you truly think she will cast aside her Occurian blade?”

“I think not—I _know_ it. You should give her the benefit of the doubt.” Zecht smiled. “You might be surprised how human goodness can overcome hate. Perhaps it might teach you to learn to let it go.” Zecht clapped Gabranth on the shoulder. “And if you think she will not do so, then you at least can barter with your life for peace. Come, Noah. We have but many miles to walk before we find that decision remaining before us.”

 

 

Quelling Ultima, and then binding her to Penelo, was easier by far than the difficult trail it took to reach her, and the whole group was exhausted on their return to the _Strahl_ . A restless night brought them the following morning to Jahara, and then another such trek to Zodiark. The fight was like nothing else Gabranth had ever experienced, using all their reserves and more until Larsa had been forced to even strike back with the Holy Mote he had found in Nabudis, and it left them with stores so grievously depleted of both magick and items that Fran proclaimed even while Zodiark’s crystal floated before them that they had to return to Balfonheim before they even _thought_ of striking out for the Pharos.

“We can’t just leave him like this,” Vaan pointed out, gesturing toward the crystal. “He has to come with one of us.” None of them reached out to take the glyph for a long moment.

“Fine.” And, before Gabranth could grab the young man, Larsa stepped forward, pushing his sweat-soaked hair out of his face, and stretched out his hand to the stone that glowed before them. There was the tinkling of bells, like a laugh, and then Larsa gasped as the stone shattered and cracked, and hissed as the glyph burned itself onto his body. Larsa had one hand pressed over his sternum as it did so, and after a moment he turned around and tugged down the front of his doublet, untying his cravat and unlacing his shirt in the dank chill of the mines to reveal Zodiark’s glyph burned onto his chest, glowing briefly before it faded into the milk pale of his skin.

He looked up at them, blue eyes wide and overwhelmed, stunned. For a long moment none of them said anything, and then Gabranth shoved unceremoniously between his brother and Fran, rushing to Larsa’s side and kneeling before him, taking his shoulders in his shaking hands. “Are you all right?” he asked, voice trembling. These creatures were of a power beyond mortal imagining, and they could never know how amenable they were to their human hosts, to being tied to something so fleeting and selfish. Gabranth could never quite forget the chilled edge of his own; Zeromus was no fair friend to stand beside him in foul weather.

“I am well,” Larsa reassured him, letting Gabranth fix his shirt. “He is grateful that I picked him, he thinks we will be very good friends.” Aye, Gabranth could see the resemblance—a child created by the gods to be subservient to their whims and desires, who all-too-soon outgrew their control. That fit Larsa as well as a second skin; he was the final son, meant to be too soft but instead had become as rebellious and unstoppable as all his brothers before him. He had never been one to sit idly, no matter the dreams of his father’s cooling corpse.

For Gabranth, who had known all of Emperor Gramis’ children, he could say that truly, Larsa was the strongest and most dangerous of them all. “You bear him well, then.” the Magister said after a long moment, smiling at Larsa, who seemed pleased by his approval. “You are a fine match.” If any among them, any single member of their cursed number, could be trusted with the power to arbiter the laws and souls of their Ivalice, Gabranth would always, _always_ , have picked Larsa.

“Let us return to Jahara, and Balfonheim.” Basch’s deep voice broke up the moment, and Gabranth pushed to his feet, one protective hand still on Larsa’s shoulder. “We can tarry no longer. The Pharos waits.”

Ashe’s fair face shuttered.

“And atop it, our Cryst.”

What little good humour Gabranth had regained in the moments before fled out of him like lifeblood from a mortal wound. His fingers tightened against Larsa’s shoulder, and the young man reached up, squeezed them in return. “Then let us go,” said the young man, now bearing a power greater than his years could ever hope to match, “And see an end to this Occurian edict, so we might be free of their machinations for good.”

Gabranth, for the first time in his adult life, felt a pang of fear so alike to that of childhood nightmares that for a moment he truly, deeply, wished to run away.

 

 

After weeks without it, the straps and laces of his armour felt almost _strange_ in his hands. In the silence of the _Strahl_ , her passengers and pilots equally nervous before the next stage of their journey, he sloughed off the dead skin of Gabranth the Man and once again dressed as Gabranth the Judge Magister. The Pharos at Ridorana was sure to be no easy climb, and atop it waited the decision that would either save or doom them.

Truthfully, Gabranth did not know which sword would bring which.

So he sat, in the hold, tying on his greaves, sliding thick hardened leather thongs through the plate, until they were tight. Then his poleyns, and then his cuisses. It had been a long time since Gabranth had put on his armour himself; almost ten years. As Judge Magister, he had squires to assist him, to help him dress in the costume of his office. It was true full plate, meant for battle, but part of its purpose of it was the fact that it struck such a sharp image so that he he might both be, and _look_ , a bastion of Imperial law.

Footsteps came down the stair from the passenger cabin above, and Gabranth looked up to find Larsa standing there, the young man’s pale face drawn. “I came to help,” Larsa said at last. “I thought you might need it to get the breastplate on.”

Gabranth remained nonplussed for a moment, but at last said, “I would be very grateful.” It felt _wrong_ to be having a hand with his armour from the heir to the Archadian Empire, but he could never have denied Larsa anything, and certainly not something so simple as this.

With Larsa it went much faster, the young man crouched behind Gabranth on the ground, tying his breastplate on while Gabranth fought with his vambraces. It was always the hardest part because it required one hand not able to help, so he had stuck the ties between his teeth to keep the tension as he laced the eyelets.

“I am worried,” Larsa began, as he jerked tight the straps of Gabranth’s breastplate, his pauldrons clanking as they settled into place. “About my Lord Brother.”

“Not an unusual situation, of late,” Gabranth replied, although it came out mostly mumbled because of the thongs between his teeth. “What in particular?”

“This nethicite.” Gabranth grunted as Larsa finally got half of the breastplate correctly fastened, and moved on to the other side, shifting behind him to kneel so that he was taller than Gabranth, needing the height in order to fix the shoulders. “Pardon my saying it, but it is far too _simple_ a plan for my brother. Think of all that could go wrong. If the Occuria had refused Lady Ashe as their arbiter of history, if we had failed to reach Giruvegan, not been drawn to Archades by the Dusk Shard, if Reddas had not stolen the skystone to let us fly to the Pharos...” Even thinking, even _knowing_ that Vayne and Cid had set them on this path, Larsa was right.

This was not the choice they would have made unless they had a very good reason for it.

Gabranth finished the laces on the first vambrace and spat them out, and then glanced back at Larsa, who had his tongue stuck between his teeth with concentration as he fixed the pauldrons. “So what do you think it is?”

“My Lord Brother had his chance to make his amends with Lady Ashe, restore Dalmasca, and avert this war. He has chosen so far to do none of it. Al-Cid was right; he means to see this come to blows.” Gabranth grunted as he pulled on a lace. That was not news. “To him, then, it must be a war of necessity—Vayne hates nothing more than waste. He is counting on Lady Ashe’s desire for revenge to place the overture of the war squarely in his hands, that he may do with it as he wishes.” The pauldrons on, he moved on to the couters. “We know,” Larsa continued, “That he misreads her intent.”

And here, Larsa paused. For a moment, his hands, holding the metal of the couters, shook.

“I _hope_ ,” the young man whispered at last, his voice trembling, “That he misreads her intent. I hope she should choose to shun war, rather than embrace it. I hope it is the Sword of Kings she takes up, and the Cryst is sundered. I hope—“ He took in a deep breath, leaned his forehead against the back of Gabranth’s head for a moment, before he continued. “I may be young, but even I...” He sat down, hard, on the metal floor of the cabin, staring at the floor in defeat.

He looked, in that moment, startlingly young and equally lost.

“What am I to do, Gabranth?” He paused in putting on his other vambrace, laces still between his teeth, turning all his attention to his liege lord who sat before him, as lost as a ship far from port in a storm. “If Ashe should pick revenge, if she should embrace war—what am I to _do_? I will have assisted not only in Archadia’s downfall, but the death of her people. My brother’s folly will be as naught compared to my own. ‘Twere better I _died_ than was wrong.”

“No.” Gabranth knotted his vambrace on, and set his hands on Larsa’s shoulders. “Nay, Larsa. Do not say that, for you are innocent of whatever is to happen here. The fault for this is mine and your brother’s, never yours. If anyone is free from blame, it is and has _always_ been you.” Larsa looked up at him, wet eyed, and Gabranth felt a pain deep in his chest. “Let it be upon _my_ head, not yours. Gods know I bear all the other blame for this war, I should not balk before another upon my tally. If it must come to it before all is said and done, I shall adjudge whether she makes overtures of peace or war. If it comes to war, if it is either her and I or all those who live upon the lands of Archades and Dalmasca—“

He did not finish the thought. Larsa looked stricken, his eyes sunken.

“I know what must be done,” Larsa whispered. “I know what my brother would do. My _father_ would do. But I think I am not yet as hardened as them, Gabranth. I cannot say it—“

“I can.” Gabranth squeezed the young man’s shoulders, smiled as best he could. “But it will not come to that, I am sure. You have faith in Ashelia, Larsa. You have ever had faith in her, and in me, even when such faith is perhaps unwarranted. If you cannot trust yourself, then trust in me, as you always have. If you believe that this war can still be stopped, and that she will stop it, I know that I will never have any need to draw my sword.” Larsa watched him, and in the sharp tightness of his jaw, Gabranth could see the Emperor he would grow to be someday—the knowledge that not everything could be averted with soft words and hope. The ability to rule with a fist as hard and cold as iron.

Gabranth was not a man gifted in the ways of words. He was no great orator; he could not sway an army to his side with only his silver tongue; he stumbled over confessions. He had spent the majority of his life running from the truth, rather than facing it. When he had been forced to, he had tried to do away with it rather than speak the words that burdened his shoulders, tried to turn it against the men he had wronged. The truth was _antithetical_ to him; it was a yawning chasm that frightened him and spelled his own personal doom. But at that moment, none of that mattered. At that moment, he would have done anything for Larsa, to see him through the coming storm and whole and hale and hearty out the other side. At that moment, the truth was the only thing that he could say, the only gift that he could give Larsa that would assuage his overburdened conscience.

“It is upon you, Larsa, that I have wagered all our fortunes.” Gabranth spoke, his voice pitched low. “You are the one who has brought us this far, it is you who stands beside Ashelia on the precipice we have come at last to teeter upon the edge of. If you believe she will turn from the gifts the Occuria have placed before her, then she shall. And if it comes to what must be done—“ He knew what would happen, if it came to that. He knew that he would not live through the encounter.

If it came to that, he would willingly place his bare neck before his brother, and let Basch finish the job that Gabranth himself had started, two years before. Larsa, he knew, would be better off without him.

“If this is what you would ask of me, than I shall as you wilt.”

Larsa drew himself up, and there was a greatness about him there, in the dusty half-light of the hold, his blue eyes large and soft. He still held Gabranth’s couters in his hands, and he was both terrifyingly young and old as the life of the earth.

“It is as I will, if it must be mete.” Larsa said, with finality in his voice. Gabranth knew, then, that it was his first proclamation as Emperor, the first (and last) order he would ever receive from the boy to whom he owed greater allegiance than any other ideal or man. “And it is you whom I trust to mete it.”


	4. through midlight to dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Chosen, know now the reason of your Choosing._

The Pharos rose, a perilous spire that scraped the sky. It was taller than many of the buildings in Archades and older by far, the ancient stone pockmarked with a thousand thousand years worth of weathering. When Balthier dropped the _Strahl_ into the clouds around the falls and they could see the plunge stretching down to the water forever below, Gabranth felt something primal clawing at the back of his throat, one of those unnamed and brilliant animal fears that was far more powerful than anything human. He was glad when they had docked and their feet were sturdy on the ground, and he stood with Larsa as the Dalmascans milled around, looking over the edge of island, tugging his gloves on properly. It had been weeks now since he’d worn his leathers and armour, and he felt finally himself again in full plate with both his blades at his sides.

“Ah,” Reddas said, joining them, his arms crossed over his broad chest, looking Gabranth over, “I see the Judge Magister returns; you think to bring Archadian law unto the annals of lost history? You do it improper; you have no helm.”

“Bergan shattered it at Bur-Omisace.” Gabranth admitted after a moment, chagrined.

Reddas looked surprised. “I still find it hard to believe that you turned on your fellow dogs.”

“I was brought to heel,” Gabranth replied, easily, turning his eyes toward Larsa. “We all must fall from grace.” Reddas made a noise, but their conversation was curtailed by Fran and Balthier joining them, the Viera looking up at the tip of the Pharos far above them, her sharp eyes narrow and worried.

“A tower on distant shore, and about its peak, a piercing Mist.” Fran murmured, her voice carrying in the clear air, above the distant rush of the falls.

“And in that Mist, the Sun-cryst waits.” Ashelia did not sound like she relished the idea that their object awaited them, far above their heads.

“My Lady,” Reddas stepped forward, one hand leaned on his sword hilt, “Your words still sound of doubt.” Gabranth grimaced; he was glad he was not the one who had said it. It needed to be said, though—if Ashelia was unsure of what path awaited her, then they were all surely lost. “Pray you reach your answer, ere we the Sun-cryst.”

“And?” The Princess replied, haughty and brutal, her voice dripping with disdain like poison, staring down her nose at Reddas. “Should I choose revenge, what then?” She did not need to look at Gabranth; he knew. They _all_ knew that he was the weight that yet tipped the balance.

He felt sick inside. Larsa prickled beside him.

“Then your woe shall be your own.” Reddas words cut the Princess’ feet out from beneath her, and he walked forward, toward the tower, leaving Ashelia with her hands folded, staring after him. She hesitated, and then Larsa pulled from Gabranth, walked forward to take her arm.

“Let not his words break your spirit,” Larsa calmed her, patting her hand and pulling her after him as Basch herded the teenagers over, Balthier joining them. “You will not choose revenge.”

“And can you be sure?” Ashelia replied, her arm stiff in Larsa’s grip as Gabranth listened, waiting for his brother. “I have a great deal to gain from revenge. Perhaps it is worth taking us all down together.”

“Nay,” Larsa laughed, but it did not ring true. “You are too smart by far to drink poison and expect your enemies to die of it.”

The lay of her eyes told Gabranth that, perhaps, she was not.

In her case, of course, it would work. Gabranth had always known when he was unwanted. He had always known when to tip the scales, to blood his hands so anothers could remain clean.

 

 

If the slog of reaching the front doors was any indication of what would be awaiting them within, then Gabranth was not excited for the path that rose—quite literally—above them. Defeating the undead dragon that guarded the gate left them all out of breath, and Penelo with a bad scrape over one arm. But it was done, and before them stood the great golden doors, thrice again and more as high as any single man at least, sealed to human hands.

It was Vaan who, bored by the marvel of the doors, found the inscription beside it. He stood staring at it for a moment before drawing their attention. “Hey, Fran.” he called over, the Viera turning toward him, “Something’s written on the wall.” It was script too old for Gabranth to read, his skills martial and based on the half-truths of spywork and not historio-linguistic, but Larsa approached alongside Fran, curious as ever.

“Engraved by someone, it seems.” Fran came to stand behind the two teenagers, her arms crossed over her chest, ears cocked as she read what had been written there. “It’s quite old,” she added. “This is a script I have not seen in a lifetime or more.” She continued to look at it, until she finally began to read. “Lo, seeker in days unborn, god-blade bearer.”

They all, to a man, looked to Ashelia. She looked stricken.

“Know you: this tower challenges the sky. Ware the watcher; the ward of the Three Waits, soul-hungry, unsated. He without power, want it not. He with power, trust it not. He with sight, heed it not. Rend illusion, cut the true path. In blood, Raithwall.” There was a beat as it sunk in, and Gabranth grimaced.

“Very reassuring,” he grumbled at last, but his complaints were overshadowed when Ashelia gasped in realisation—understanding of what Fran had just read to them.

“The Dynast-King?” She stepped forward, mouth half-open in shock. Fran laughed, turning toward her.

“Does it startle you? The Dynast-King took his sword from the Occuria. It was here he claimed the nethicite. He must have known he was not the last the Occuria would choose. He left this _for you_.” The Princess subsided; the footsteps she tried to follow were large and larger yet. “Rend illusion,” Fran repeated, setting a hand on her shoulder, “Cut the true path.” Her eyebrows were cocked, patiently. “Words of much mystery. Yet...his blood runs in your veins. Perhaps it whispers to you the truth?”

Gabranth felt an inexplicable urge to laugh. If Raithwall’s blood in Ashelia’s veins could speak truth, what could his and Basch’s shared blood bespeak aside from anguish?

The Princess took in a slow breath, and stepped forward, away from Fran’s touch and toward the waiting doors. She looked up at them, unsure, and moved ever closer to the portal. She did not respond to the Viera’s words, instead moving past the warning, headstrong as ever, unwilling to be held back by what could perhaps be well-warranted caution.

The great metal grillwork before her slowly opened, the huge pendulums swinging apart to grant her entrance to the Pharos. Like Giruvegan, this was once again made not by human hands. No doubt here the Occuria had created this as well; the thing was too great and too old to be anything but immortal and untouchable. Their mark and passing would mean nothing—generations after them, if the Occuria chose another, would have no idea that their feet had touched these stones.

The party followed, and behind them, the door closed. The sunlight on the island was cut off, and they were plunged into the water-tinged darkness of the Pharos.

There was nowhere to go but up.

 

 

The lower levels, upon their entry, faced their number down with the usual obstacles that had so far previously barred their path. Monsters, the undead, crawling up out of the stones—those were easy to deal with, if tiring in their seemingly-endless numbers—and puzzles that were simple enough to solve once their riddles had been broken. The monsters that awaited them in the rooms of illusion were teeth-gritting difficult to down, but with nine among their number, cycling an injured fighter out was no great difficulty. Reddas, who managed to only take nicks and scratches, fought beside everyone no matter what.

At the end of the Horizon of First Light, all their weapons drenched in blood and gore, Basch forced a halt in account of them actually needing to _clean_ their weapons, lest they rust.

It was a cool picnic lunch, next to the swirling vortex of water that filled the centre of the tower, and Gabranth found himself placed on food duty with Penelo, ever-practicing to improve her cooking. They found a comfortable silence between them while unpacking the stores that Fran had brought from the Strahl, and as Penelo got out cured meats and cheese to make sandwiches, she handed Gabranth a loaf of hard-grained bread and the knife.

“It’s a little hard to make sandwiches with armour on,” she said, smiling up at him, and Gabranth paused to look at her for a moment before smiling wryly, taking the bread and leaning against a wall to slice it, carving off pieces that he handed down to the girl.

“You are correct.” Of the two young Dalmascans he felt far more at-ease with Penelo, who treated him as a man and not a spectre of the past. Unlike Ashe, who wore Dalmasca’s grief like a shroud, or Basch, who mirrored every one of Gabranth’s sins back at him, or Vaan who could spit the acid of two years of occupied territory like a viper between his teeth, Penelo took Dalmasca’s ill fates and held them within her, against her breast like one would the locket of a lost lover.

Exactly like that, actually. _Reks_.

Across from them, arranged around the now-active Way Stone, the rest of their party was in animated conversation, and Gabranth found himself, not for the first time, staring at the Princess. “You watch her a lot,” Penelo said, cutting into his very thoughts on it. “I mean, it’s not creepy or anything, I just had noticed more and more ever since Giruvegan.”

“Aye,” Gabranth admitted, carving another slice of bread off. “She has occupied my thoughts oft of late. I worry for the choice she must make at the end of all this.” He could, in turn, feel Penelo watching him, and he tried to focus on the bread in his hands, let that give him something to do. “I fear my presence does not make it any easier on her. I don’t doubt that, if anything, I may jeopardise this peace Larsa so wishes to see won simply by living to see him through it.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” Penelo handed him the hard cheese when he was done with the bread, and he started in on slicing that as well. It was a good, mechanical motion. Knife, pressed blunt-edged against his thumb, turning his hand and wrist to slice the blade through the cheese, each slice handed to Penelo, over and over again. He debated trying to get his gloves off, but it was not worth it just to cut cheese. “I don’t think you’re giving her enough credit.”

“I believe you are giving her too much.”

“That’s a little unfair, don’t you think?” He glanced back at her, and found Penelo watching him, her head tipped on one side. “I wouldn’t.”

“And you are wise greatly beyond your years; you and Lord Larsa are a good match.” She laughed. “I speak true; you are by far more mature than I ever was at your age.” Ah, her age—that had been.

(Landis.)

“You can’t get out of this with flattery!” Penelo banged him on the greave with her fist, the metal clanking. She shook her butter knife at him as she spread some peppercorn paste on one of the sandwiches. “Ashe just wants to see Dalmasca safe. She’s not going to throw all that away to bring grief to another whole country full of innocent people. She isn’t like that—and besides, I don’t think anyone here would let her, anyway.”

“Then why does she struggle with it so?” Ashelia had not been herself since Giruvegan—the young Princess he had met before then had been headstrong and sure. Now, she was subdued, and there was a lingering anxiety that tinged her words and deeds. “If you are so sure of her choices, you would think she is as well.”

“Would you do it?” Penelo returned with, and Gabranth froze, knife halfway into the cheese. “If you were in her place, could you look me and Vaan, and Ashe, and Basch in the face and choose to destroy Dalmasca? She’s not exactly dealing with intangible things here.” Penelo licked off a finger that had gotten peppercorn spread on it. “She’d have to do it with you and Larsa watching, and that’s not something I think she’d do. Besides—“ she set the finished sandwich aside and started working on the next one, her busy hands never faltering despite her words. “What would she gain from it? Revenge isn’t really good for much. Vaan learned that, when he met you.”

Gabranth had still not cut the cheese. He was staring at Penelo’s bent head, the gentle part of her blonde hair, the upturn of her nose. The feathers in her hair bounced as she moved. “Hey, can I have the next slice—“ she said, when he still hadn’t handed it to her, and then she looked up at him. Her eyes were as blue as the sea.

She stared at him. There was a fleeting instant of confusion, and then her face hardened, as she saw something in his unguarded expression—oh, what he wouldn’t do, cursed for want of his damned helmet!

“You would,” Penelo whispered, awe-struck. “You _would_ kill us all, for revenge.” She didn’t seem to believe her own words as she said it. “Even knowing us, even _regretting_ everything—“ and how did she know he regretted it, his words had rarely said as much, he had tried his best to not speak of it and pretend that the ghosts that haunted his footsteps were no more than mere illusions—

“Yes.” His voice was no more than a whisper, ripped out of his unwilling throat. He, too-slowly, finished cutting the cheese. She did not take it. “I would. I did.” She was still watching him, and he found, for the first time, the desperate need to explain himself to someone—there was something about Penelo that reminded him startlingly of himself, in his younger days. Before all had become hell and high water. “Did you never consider what it was that happened two years ago? Penelo, it never even _occurred_ to me to refuse Vayne’s orders, and had the opportunity to do so arose, no part of me believes I would have been able to do so. He offered me the chance to cut bloody scores in my brother’s hide, and I would have taken that over anything else in the world—aye, even the lives of thousands, of his love.”

He had spoken almost naught of it, since the day. Since he had stared down his blade at Raminas’ dead body, Basch’s horrified raw breath loud in his ears, blood dripping down his sword and blood dripping down his brother’s face by the eye Gabranth had nearly taken out. He dreamt of it. He sometimes wished he could go back, and undo it all—and yet knew that even if he’d been granted the opportunity, he never could have.

There was a sick triumph in revenge, even as it slowly killed him. Drink poison, and let the other die.

“I have made her choice, Penelo, and it is one that is all too easy to make. Who among us has never, even for a moment, wanted to throw it all away to see them feel as you feel? To see just desserts? I could not—would not—fault her if she followed in my footsteps.”

“I would.” Penelo said, quietly. She took the cheese at last. “I wish you could listen to yourself talk about it. You don’t sound like it made you happy.”

“It didn’t.” Gabranth did not hesitate for a moment. “There is nothing I regret more in my life than killing Dalmasca.”

“And killing your brother?” Penelo prompted, her voice hard-edged. Oh, she was a fitting match for Larsa indeed, this sharp-tongued urchin, who wore the dirt of Rabanstran streets the same way Ashelia wore the crown of office, like royalty. “Do you regret that?”

Gabranth could not for the life of him find an answer.

 

 

After lunch, more puzzles. This time, bridges that spanned gut-churning interior depths deeper than some canyons Gabranth had walked through, peppered with enemies more powerful yet than anything else they had fought. He could understand with growing clarity the warning that Raithwall had left for his predecessors; this tower was a test far greater again than Giruvegan. That had been brutal but comparatively quick. This was endurance. This was _dedication_. A promise to keep to it, even when the going was impossible. The chance to destroy a world was apparently not a gift so lightly endowed as to simply be handed along with a sword.

When they finally boarded the lift upward from the Reach of Diamond Law and fought Hashmal, Basch took the creature after its defeat without hesitation, the glyph mapping itself along the back of one of his calves. Another burden borne unquestioningly for his Princess, but Gabranth would have done the same if Larsa had asked him.

Now all that remained between them and the top of the tower was stairs—stairs upon stairs upon stairs. “It’s beautiful.” Ashelia said as they walked, trailing her fingers along one of the balustrades. They came up without a hint of dust. “But...lifeless. I know not how the Occuria can live like this, in a place so devoid of light and colour.” She pressed her hand to her breast. “It seems pointless to build these incomparable cities and towers and leave them untouched and unseen.”

“We are no immortals, my lady.” Reddas clapped a broad, dark hand on her shoulder. “’Twould we were, I’ve no doubt that we would see their point of view on it. They think of things far differently than do the likes of you or I.”

“We are trespassers on their lands.” There was a tinge of worry in Fran’s voice when she spoke. “The din of the Mist grows greater with every step. They do not want us here.”

“We’re just flies,” Balthier snarled. He had been on-edge ever since before they had even entered the Pharos—Gabranth had caught snippets of his conversation with Vaan from when they had landed, and it had not sounded promising or optimistic in the least. “Fouling their bread. I guarantee these Occurians have no interest in us aside from being sure that we die before we get it into our heads to ruin their plans and change their ideas of history.” He snorted; an ugly, ill-humoured thing. “That’s exactly the sort of thing that my father would like. No wonder he gets along so with Venat.”

“Are we not the same? Do we not kill ants, before they disturb us? Nay, we are at this no better.” Gabranth felt a powerful surge of affection for Larsa as he spoke; so much that Basch gave him an absurdly fond look. No doubt out of amusement at whatever foolish expression his traitorous face was making.

“I think,” Gabranth said at last, smiling at Larsa, “That if every mortal thought about ants the way that you did, Ivalice would be a kinder place by far than it is. We may all learn from that attitude.” Larsa practically beamed at him, glowing with pleasure at Gabranth’s praise—Larsa knew better than any how sparse Gabranth was with his approval, although the young man got far more of it than anyone else ever did.

“Fran,” Basch said, an intentional sharpness in his voice—reminding them, that for all the beauty of their surroundings, for all the gentility and hopeful naïveté Larsa categorically refused to set aside, that they were nearing the end of this deadly errand— “How bad is the Mist?”

“Quite loud. We are near the top.” She looked up above them at where the stairs shifted perceptibly inward. “The Sun-cryst is now quite close.” A sobering silence took them all then, and Ashelia, who had been leading their company with a stride as purposeful as it was quick, slowed. That hesitancy belied the fact that Gabranth was more right than Penelo wanted to admit.

And, indeed, the girl ducked closer to where Basch and Gabranth walked just behind Larsa, her voice pitched low. “I wonder if she’ll really do it. Take revenge, against the Empire.”

“Have my words discouraged you?” Gabranth asked, surprised—her sureness earlier had been shaken badly, it seemed. Penelo looked at him and sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly, and then shook her head.

“No, just...opened my eyes. I mean, I know how she must feel. It’s hard, losing someone you care about.” Larsa, without a moment’s hesitation, slowed his step to take her hand in his, and she seemed gladdened for his silent support. “I thought I knew for sure, what I would do, what _she_ would do...”

“It’s something we all got in common.” Vaan darted a blistering glance at Gabranth, who merely let him, as was his due.

“But, you know,” Penelo continued, thoughtful, “No matter how hard we try, we can’t change the past.” She quieted, and in the silence of the tower broken only by the rushing water and the strike of their footsteps, her honest words rang true— “There’s nothing that can bring them back.”

So many ghosts. Vaan and Penelo with Reks, whose ghost haunted Gabranth more than he chose to admit. Raminas and Rasler, who hung over Ashe like a blade above her neck. Basch faced down Vossler, Zecht all of Nabradia now naught but Mist and anguish. Balthier had the unenviable task of facing down his father’s ghost alive and breathing, refusing to go to an early grave. Larsa had his father, and the thought that soon his brother would no doubt die as well, leaving him utterly orphaned.

Gabranth had all of Landis, never left him, heavier on his every step by far than the weight of his armour. He had Landis, aye; that great yawning chasm that had cleaved his chest in twain twenty years previous and never healed. It had never scabbed with time and the blood still filled the back of his throat. That was Basch’s burden to bear as well, and it had driven them apart, and now to here.

He had Dalmasca too, no less poignant, but far more personal—Landis could not be placed to a face aside that one which was twin to his own, but Dalmasca was Reks and Raminas, and the blood on his sword-hand that Zeromus had condemned with the black ink of his glyph, now faded but a present pressing that pulsed beneath his skin. Dalmasca was Vaan and Penelo and Basch and Ashe, who watched him with bruise-bright eyes like drowning deep water, and in each of whom there was those two faces, reminding him with every glance and word and _breath_ that here was the very real choice he’d made to reap what he had sown. Gabranth had Drace, who had gasped out her last with her hand tight around his and their eyes locked and the plea, the _plea_ to see Larsa to safety. Gabranth had Gramis, whom he could have perhaps saved—but, he could never have saved. Gramis was dead the moment Vayne took in his hands the power over the life and death of Dalmasca, that Gabranth had delivered to him with the head of a King and the head of a boy.

Ghosts, each and every one. And all damned him, and this precious, tenuous peace with it—Vayne’s war was writ in blood that Gabranth had spilt, and blood was as indelible as ink. It would not wash off. It would not wash out.

Blood stayed beneath your nails long after the dead were gone and buried.

“Still,” Penelo’s voice, speaking to Vaan, jarred him from his reverie, and Gabranth took in a few ragged breaths to force himself into motion, into continued action. This was all nearly over, now—just a little longer and he would see the final act, for good or ill. “When I close my eyes...I can see them _so clearly._ ”

“Illusions of the past.” They were coming to a halt now, the last breath before the storm of whatever the Sun-cryst would with it bring, and Zecht walked past Penelo, Vaan, and Larsa to the base of the next flight of stairs, his hand cocked on one hip. He did not look at any of them as he spoke, but stared far ahead—his eyes distant, seeing, no doubt, the ghosts of Nabudis. “You think to have cast them off, only to find them years later, unwearying, _unrelenting._ ” He turned his gaze then to Gabranth, and there was a knowing glint in his too-sharp eyes. “The past can bind a man as surely as irons.”

Ashelia, as they had spoken, had gone once more to the balustrade, and she leaned now against it, faced the rushing water. Gabranth could not see her face, and her body was closed in. Once again, she seemed to notice almost nothing around her. Basch walked slowly to her side, and set his hand on her shoulder—she turned, just slightly toward him, trusting him with her weakness.

“Cut the true path.” Zecht’s voice was low, soft, with unspoken magnitudes beneath it. “But will she?”

 

 

_Chosen, know now the reason of your Choosing._

Atop the Pharos, you could see forever. The sea stretched out beyond the edge of the horizon, as blue as Larsa’s eyes, as heartless as Ashelia’s. There was nowhere to go backwards but over the edge to a long fall with a hard stop, and nowhere to go forwards except into the waiting cocoon of the Sun-cryst, pulsing with a disembodied heartbeat that reminded Gabranth of the pulse he’d felt when he’d run Raminas through, the King’s lifeblood soaking his hands.

“So this,” Reddas said, his deep voice tinged with awe, “Is the Sun-cryst.”

_Chosen, know now the reason of your Choosing._

Ashe stepped forth, shedding for good the trappings of indecision and hesitancy, letting them slough off her like dead skin until she stood tall. Gabranth could see in her like this the cold-edged monarchical brutality that his brother so adored; nurtured and grown through hardship and doubt. She was a Queen of harsh desert sands and the whip of midnight storms, of stars too cruelly bright in the empty night sky, and in her grip she held the balance. In her left, the Sword of Kings, and Archadia’s salvation—in her right, the Treaty-Blade and Archadia’s doom.

She walked up to the edge of the cocoon, where the Mist breathed against her face. “King Raithwall stood here,” the Princess said, looking at the Dynast-King’s blade in her hand. “With this sword, he cut the Sun-cryst.”

Vaan pushed past Reddas to her side; as uncaring of rank and stature as always, Ashe was as much his equal, as much one he could berate, as was Penelo. “But you’re going to use the sword to destroy the Sun-cryst. Aren’t you, Ashe.” It was not a question, and once again, Gabranth was struck by these two Dalmascan children, how Vaan and Penelo could look at what Archadia had done when it had raped their home, when they could look at the ghosts who rode on Gabranth’s shoulders, and _know_ in the marrow of their bones that Ashelia would choose this precious filigreed peace over the chance for just one moment to lance hot bile through the veins of those who had done this to her.

The Princess laughed, for a moment, and the sheer inanity of it made Gabranth’s temple throb with rage— _laughter_ , when she held the lives of millions in her hand, and could choose to throw them away, as he had thrown them away. She was gentle, and all the more deadly for it, when she spoke to him. “Don’t interrupt me, Vaan.”

_Chosen, know now the reason of your Choosing._

Ashelia raised her hand, the Treaty-Blade glowing in her grasp, and there was a pulse as deep and great as the breath of the world. The ground below them trembled, and in his chest, Gabranth’s heart did a very funny thing.

It broke.

The Pharos shook like the earth itself was quaking, the seas far below grew choppy and vicious, the kind of water that would sink ships and break their spars to naught but twigs and driftwood. The sky darkened into the tumbling shade of ominous clouds, and winds whipped that tiny platform upon which they stood, whistling through the open columns and walls. The cocoon vanished into Mist and fire, blasting through all of them as did the winds of winter’s chill, shredding heart and soul alike.

It was a monstrous thing, the Sun-cryst, sundered of its shielding. Monstrous, aye, but beautiful—it hung there, glowing with the Mist it had swallowed through all the long centuries, and he could see how Raithwall had willingly carved his relics from its flesh, trading power for his own humanity.

And so it came to this: atop a towering pinnacle of crumbling gods-built stone, in the eye of a storm that made the sky and sea alike crash with thunder, with the fate of the world placed in a girl who teetered precariously on the cusp of womanhood and queenhood, with the only thing stopping her from tipping them into madness her hopes to see her war-ravaged country saved this one, final indignity trampling its grave.

And Gabranth, against that.

And for the first time, as Ashelia walked forward, her short hair whipped wildly about her face by the gale, there gathered before the Sun-cryst a whisper of Mist he could see that there stood—

Basch gasped. “Lord Rasler!?” It was frightening, seeing the ghost in person. At Giruvegan Vaan had said that she was seeing something, although never chose to elaborate, or intentionally ignored Gabranth’s question at the time. Now they could all indeed see that which had her attention, and it was a frightening spectre.

Gabranth wondered what it was that Vaan saw. Did he see Rasler too? Or did he see his brother, Reks with Basch’s sword through his belly and blood on his lips?

Zecht, beside him, shook bodily. “Nay,” he whispered, his deep voice cracking, “’Twas it never not enough, that I should see him like this, awaiting me here?” Gabranth, without speaking, grabbed the other man’s arm, fingers tight on his bicep through the leather of his gloves. Steadied him—steadied himself.

“You want revenge.” Ashelia’s voice was rich with grief like the sodden tang of old marrow. “You would have me use the Stone?”

In response, the spectre wordlessly stretched out his hand before her, his palm open and waiting. Those ghostly fingers and sightless eyes were all the condemnation that was needed; Gabranth knew. He would want revenge; he would use the stone. Rasler would have Ashelia strike them all down. Oh, and did they not truly deserve it, the ghosts who haunted the Necrohol? He had seen them, reanimated now in the whispering bones of sleepless skeletons and the chilling lines of the wraiths. If they had been able to speak, would they too not have begged with Rasler for Ashelia to take revenge? For they, who could no longer do so except to rend trespassers on their lands as they could not in life?

_Chosen, know now the reason of your Choosing._

“You would have me destroy the Empire?” Ashelia’s voice cracked on the words, shattered like overheated glass. Without realising, Gabranth’s hand had slipped from Zecht’s shoulder. Beside him, he heard, quiet, a single plea from between Larsa’s too-kind lips:

“No.”

“Is this my duty?” Ashelia shouted, her clear voice raising in anguish. “Is this what you want?” The ghost of her lost love did not move, did not shift—that hand remained outstretched, waiting. Waiting for her to place in his hand the blade, so they might together cut free the instrument that would mete out their ready revenge. But she did not take his hand, did not lift her blade, instead—she cast her eyes down, and with the voice of a wretch torn from the ruined confines of her throat, “I cannot.”

 

 

_Chosen, know now the reason of your Choosing._

Those were the words that had been writ upon the pedestal below, waiting for them before that last Way Stone. Some final message from Raithwall, most like, although Fran had not elaborated upon reading them if they seemed left by the same hand as the Dynast-King upon the door or from those endless, ageless denizens that had crafted the tower in days long gone, when they had ruled Ivalice before the humes had stumbled upon the brilliant glitter of their design.

When Gabranth had read them, he had felt a burn in the back of his throat; the hot clench of bile. Aye; what _was_ the reason? Was it that she now had this last moment to pick salvation or damnation, or was it something else? Was it that Ashelia truly was the heir to Raithwall, long naught but bone dust in his tomb, and here she would find those answers, following in his footsteps? Was it that she was a willing pawn to the Occuria, who had only ever intended for her to do as they asked?

Or was it, as Vaan and Penelo, as Larsa and Basch, as all but Gabranth hoped, that she was stronger by degrees than either he or Cid had ever been. Was it truly that she had it in her to look in the eye the curst bounty of their gifts and throw it all away and build her own destiny with her bloody hands?

He did not know then.

He still did not know now.

Gabranth’s feet carried him forward; it was as inexorable as iron to a lodestone, and he could not have stopped it even had he wanted to—and, oh, he had long stopped wanting to. How long had he been a black mark upon this journey, a mould growing into the very heart of Ashelia’s home? He, with Dalmasca’s blood on his hands. When they had reached the edge, Ashelia B’nargin Dalmasca had not fallen—no, she had clung with all the bitter grit of a princess spurned to her self-worth, and thrown aside those trappings unfit for her grace. When they reached the edge, balanced upon that knife, Gabranth had fallen.

Gabranth always fell.

“Why do you hesitate?” His voice barked out of him like acid, and he found, abruptly, that he stood between Ashe and her party, and in either hands rested both his swords. He had not known he had drawn them. There was now no way back for her, and no way forward but to lift the blades and pick either life or death, arbitrated by a girl hardly more than a child. “Take what is yours.”

Larsa’s eyes watched him, and betrayal was a burning taste on the back of his tongue. But at least, this was a taste he knew as well as his own armour.

“The Cryst is a blade,” Gabranth snarled, lifting one of his own as he said it, pointed at the creature still pulsing before them all, that awaited Ashe should she take but a step further. “It was meant for you. Wield it! Avenge your father!”

“Gabranth, stop it!” Larsa’s voice cracked right down the middle as he shouted it, running forward to grab his sword arm, digging in his heels against the floor. “You are not to blame!”

Gabranth shook him off, as one might a pestering fly.

“It was _I_ who wore Basch’s face—“ he snarled, still not looking away from Ashelia, who watched him with fury as potent and live as venom in her eyes. “It was _I_ who cut down the Life of Dalmasca. It was I who murdered your father, it was I who murdered Reks.” And oh, the look of bloody murder on Vaan’s face. “ _I_ slew your king,” another step further, another unforgivable step, another moment of broken faith and betrayal that stung, another failing writ on to his already-innumerable tally. Each step further from salvation. “ _I_ slew your country. Do these deeds not demand vengeance?” He moved like a Draklor automaton, bringing together the hilts of _Chaos Blade_ and _Highway Star_ , linking them with a clink that sounded loud despite the screaming storm all around them. Every step was one further from ever being able to turn back.

“Noah—“ but Basch was too little too late; Basch had always been too little too late. Even Larsa could not save him now. They had both tried, despite all, to wipe clean his bloody ledger, but it did not matter. Ashelia had a duty to Dalmasca, and that duty was one that lived before her in Gabranth’s blackened soul.

She knew her duty.

She dropped the Sword of Kings to the ground, and the metal clanked when it landed with a strange sort of finality, a line drawn in the sand. Gabranth grinned with all his teeth, and it would have only been more proper had blood been leaking between them, as it had been when he’d pinned Raminas to his throne and watched the man’s last thoughts be of betrayal and traitors.

She lifted the Treaty-Blade.

_Chosen, know now the reason of your Choosing._

“Yes!” Gabranth crowed, striding toward her now, the strange horror that had rooted him to the spot since Giruvegan gone now, replaced with hysterical motion. “Good!” He was almost laughing, but far nearer to crying, a horrible feeling of careening like he had taken a step off of the edge of the tower and now fell forever down toward a quick, final landing. “Find your wrath! Take up your sword, Ashelia! Fight, and serve those who died before you!”

Three more steps. Two more steps. One more step, and he swung, the great whistle of his blade lost in the screech of the storm, but before he could strike Ashe down, he found his strike blocked with a bone-rattling clang of metal upon metal, sword straining against sword. Before him stood Reddas, the pirate grinning wide with the wild heat of battle. Gabranth strained, his teeth grit to creaking, his calves shaking with the effort he exerted against the other man.

“Zecht!’ Gabranth shouted, furious.

“Two years past, when I took up the Midlight Shard and used it not knowing that I did, I swore such terrible power would never be used again. I forsook my Judicer’s plate, and my name.”

“Do not speak to me of the past!” Gabranth yelled back, disengaging and stepping back, spinning his swords up before him. “Do not speak to me of the sins you ran from, rather than face! You cannot lecture me of consequence when cowardice freed you from yours!”

“You always were more foolhardy than any gave you credit for, Gabranth. What do you think this will do, goading Lady Ashe?” They connected again, another steel-grinding clash of blades. Zecht looked away from him, toward the Princess, with the Treaty-Blade still clutched to her breast. “Reach out your hand, Lady Ashe! But remember, that which you grasp is something beyond revenge, something greater than despair!” He laughed, bitterly. “Something beyond _our_ reach.” It was Reddas who pulled away this time, flipping his daggers, gesturing at Gabranth to come forward, come on, _take it_. “Try as we might, Gabranth, history’s chains bind us too tightly.”

He moved forward without warning, catching Zecht halfway through his tirade, and Reddas managed to block the first strike against his daggers, but the blades were not meant to catch and hold swords the size and weight of Gabranth’s own. Reddas was deadly with them, but they were for sliding under an opponent’s reach—not holding a man at bay. The second strike made Zecht waver, and the third sent swords and master both flying, Gabranth hooking Reddas around the side with the curved end of _Highway Star_ and wrenching his feet from under him. Reddas tried to recover but slid, and stumbled, and fell to his knees.

“No,” Gabranth snarled. “We cannot escape the past.” He had worn it as his funeral shroud for near twenty years. He of all men should know. He stared down at Zecht, splayed and shattered upon the flagstones, as weak as he himself was. “You and I stand as living proof.” He turned to Ashe then, still frozen with indecision or rage or both. “What is your past, Daughter of Dalmasca? Did you not swear revenge?” As he had—and what had fulfilling that promise wrought, but more blood and death, another oath, another childhood sundered?

And here before them all, glowing as pale as the sky at noon, his mute hand outstretched, Rasler.

“Do the dead not demand it?!”

_Chosen, know now the reason of your Choosing._

Ashelia’s face was suffused with pain, her mouth a grimace of realisation and knowing—for she had sworn revenge, and sworn it down upon his head and Archades with it. Rasler was waiting for her, waiting for a sacrifice to fill the void his death had left in the fabric of Ashelia’s life. And who better, then, to fill that hole, to give an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, than Gabranth? It would be a mean substitute, to cut him crude from Larsa’s side, but at least Ashe would stand ready knowing that she had done unto others what had been done unto her.

“The dead demand nothing!” Larsa rushed forward, stood beside Vaan. “The dead are dead, and must there stay!” His voice was cracking with anguish. “Gabranth, stop this!” He was crying, Gabranth noticed distantly. He could do nothing to stop it now; it was too late for that. It was too late for a great many things.

It was too late, he had gone too far now, too far this time. For Vaan had picked up Reddas’ sword, and held it ready in his hands, stared at Gabranth like for the first time he saw plain the man behind the façade. He and Ashelia looked at one another with more knowing in their hearts, and then to Rasler. The ghost opened his arms. Entreating. Pleading. “Do it!” Gabranth shouted at her, spittle flecking his lips. “See how he begs of you, Princess? Take up your Occurian blade; cut me down, and Archades with me!”

She slowly turned her back on Gabranth. He panted, strung spring-tight. “Rasler,” Ashe whispered, her voice barely a murmur, one deep and secret and shameful with pain. “My prince. Our time was short. Yet I know this—“ and she looked up then, and gone was the last vestiges of the Princess. Gone were those few final whispered curtains that had shaded her figure, the filigree of soft desert lace, and laid bare was the Queen—Your Majesty at last, in truth.

“You were not the kind to take base revenge!”

_Chosen, know now the reason of your Choosing._

Ashelia sliced the Treaty-Blade through the spectre’s chest, and with it, cut the Mist that made the figure. “The Rasler I knew is gone.” The dead were dead; they stayed dead. She had been futile to hope other, even with his shade before her. Rasler’s face changed, from the beatific plea to a sneer of agony, hate and vicious, vile raw wrath there.

“You are our saint, Ashelia B’nargin.” The Occuria spoke through their avatar, Rasler’s mouth moving with their honey-poison words. “You must use the nethicite! You must be the one to straighten history’s weave!” Another strike from the blade, cutting the creature once more in twain, and it vanished into nothing more than Mist and smoke.

“I am no false saint for you to use!”

And here it was at last, laid bare. _Chosen, know now the reason of your Choosing_ —the Occuria had thought her a pawn, ready for their use and their abuse. They had thought her nothing but another piece in the game. They had known she would take revenge with Gabranth before her; kill him and Archades with him.

And she had not.

The silence was long. “Ashe,” Vaan whispered at last, looking at his Queen with new eyes—before him, seeing her for the first time. No, Gabranth knew—they were _all_ seeing her for the first time. All, perhaps, except for Basch.

Basch had seen her true from the first.

“In all Dalmasca’s long history, not once did we rely on the Dusk Shard. Our people resolved never to use it, though their need might be dire. That...was the Dalmasca I wanted back.” The Treaty-Blade fell from her limp fingers to lay on the ground as a thing, lifeless, its Occurian power robbed from it the moment she had spurned their edicts. It was now no more than a hunk of useless metal.

She turned then, to look at him no longer with rage, but with pity. “To use the Stone now would be to betray that.” And here at last was her resolve; exactly as Vaan and Penelo had known. Exactly as Gabranth himself could not do. “I will destroy the Sun-cryst! I will discard the Stone!”

“You claim no need of power?” Gabranth spat the words like venom. “What of your broken kingdom’s shame?” Dalmasca and Landis both; abandoned and betrayed, fallen into discard like refuse. If Ashe could lay aside her past and step forward into her future, than so too could Gabranth set aside what little artifice he still wore, lies as close to him as a second skin, the armour around his ruined, yawning chasm of a heart. “The dead demand justice!”

“The dead demand nothing at all!” Ashe shouted back. “It is the living who demand; the living who need us!”

“You’re wrong.” Gabranth spun to stare at Vaan, out of whom all the anger, too, was gone. Here there was pity as well, an abundance of it. “What would change? I can’t help my brother now.” He took in a shaking breath; near to tears. “My brother’s gone. He’s dead!” At Gabranth’s hands, on Basch’s blade, watching his face with this shattered look upon his too-young face, unable to believe, and rightly so.

“Even with power, we cannot change what has passed. What is done...is done.” As Ashelia spoke, she stepped forward, and dropped the fallow shell of the Dawn Shard. It rolled across the floor, one slow revolution at a time, to stop just before his feet. Gabranth felt sick just looking at it.

“Yet without power,” he rejoined her—a Queen now stripped of all she had come in with, with nothing to bargain but her wits and her too-sharp teeth— “What future can you claim? What good a kingdom you cannot defend?”

“Then I will defend Queen and kingdom both!” And forth stepped Basch, the hero of this farce. Gabranth looked at his brother’s face, the twin to his own but still free, still his own, and laughed.

“Defend?” He barked, laughing again, a bitter thing. “You? You who failed Landis _and_ Dalmasca?” Yes, there it was, the crux that all hinged upon. Landis. Always Landis. Landis, and his broken heart that had festered and rotted there for twenty years, that his brother had never even deigned to bury, that had poisoned him one pulse of blood at a time until his whole body was fetid and gangrenous and his mind putrescence and mould and rot and  _guilt_. “What can shame hope to keep safe? Your shield is shattered, your oaths poison those you would protect!”

“And do yours not?” Basch snapped back—and Larsa, his blue eyes wet and his pale cheeks hot and red with fury, tears streaking his face.

“Gabranth, stand down!” Larsa, rushing before his brother, Larsa reaching for him, plaintive. Larsa, standing to try to pull him back from the edge as Gabranth tightened the noose around his own neck. Larsa, grabbing his arm, trying to force his blades back. Larsa, begging, borrowing, pleading for just one more moment of life in Gabranth’s tortured form. Too late, too late, too little too late. “She has chosen to set aside the Stone. This is no revenge for Dalmasca; we shall see peace! I order you to stand down!”

Gabranth shook him off, and Larsa stumbled, barely catching himself. He looked up at Gabranth like he hardly knew him, and that was perhaps what hurt most of all. Not living, not another moment of living, not Archades living for the thing which Gabranth himself had damned Dalmasca, but Larsa looking at him— _betrayed_.

Drace should have never told him to protect Larsa.

Gabranth, like Basch, could not protect anything. Least of all the things which he loved most.

“Hear me, Basch!” To turn to his brother, to _fight_ his brother, was easier a hundredfold than trying to fight Larsa, against whom he could never raise anything—not his voice, not his hand, not his sword. “Do not think killing the kingslayer will win you back your honour! When you abandoned home and kin, your name was forever stained with blood!”

“Aye.” Basch did not hesitate—he accepted that blame, like Gabranth himself could not bear to. He had long ago made his peace. “This stain is mine to bear.” Basch had drawn his weapon, and Gabranth found himself facing the Zodiac Spear, brought to level against him. “But I will bear it willingly, knowing that I did all that I could for hope! Can you say as much, brother?”

Gabranth spat.

“Preen and strut as you like! In the end, we are the same!” Two damned souls left to die; at least Gabranth had long-ago accepted his fate. He was just waiting for it. “Blood-thirsting carrion birds, hell-bent on revenge!”

 

 

Two years before, in the throne room of Nalbina fortress, Gabranth and Basch had fought. His brother had stumbled in with his contingent of Dalmascan soldiers, and found a spectre of himself waiting there, Gabranth with a mirror to his own blade in hand, stained with the still-running blood of Dalmasca’s dead king.

He had slain the soldiers, and then brother had struck at brother in one final clash, the scrape of steel the only sound in that lonely, empty room. They had fought first as Landisers, with the sword styles they had learned to wield still as children, and then as Dalmascan and Archadian. Basch was exhausted, weak, from breaking into the fortress.

He had never had a chance. Not with shock and surprise on Gabranth’s chance. Not with him fresh but for the man he’d run through. It had all been over when Gabranth had cut lengthwise, to take Basch’s head from his shoulders, perhaps, and instead nearly taken his eye, blood welling hot over his face as he’d fallen to his knees. They had stood there, panting the both of them, until he’d had Basch taken away; until it had come time to turn his brother to being damned.

They fought now with no less fervour. Then, Gabranth had pulled his punches, not meant to kill his brother, needed the scapegoat live to sacrifice—now, furious, he did no such thing. Even as children, they had been unmatched in martial arts. Basch was blessed with skilled hands, an affinity with almost every weapon, talented with anything he set his hands to, master of none. Gabranth had traded that and instead been more talented with magicks and a true gift for the sword. In bladework, Gabranth would always be his brother’s superior. In a head-on clash, with Gabranth using his proper swords, he would _always_ triumph steel-to-steel and hand-to-hand. It had been true in Landis, upon the bloodstained sands of the salle grounds. It had been true in Nalbina two years before.

It was true now.

They moved back and forth across the too-tight space of the Pharos floor, their reaches evenly matched with dualblade and spear. For a time none dared interfere, and it was just them against one another, them against the world.

“Can’t bring yourself to kill me?” Gabranth snarled, as he knocked his brother’s spear aside, spun his swords before him, made Basch jump back to avoid the deadly blades whipping inches from the unarmoured bottom of his stomach. His first mistake was putting comfort before economy. “Even now?”

“I’ll not spill your blood before Larsa,” Basch snapped back, knocking his blades aside with the butt of his spear. “I’ll not be complicit in your death wish.”

“Never wanted to run me through?” Gabranth locked his hilts on either side of the shaft of the spear, pressed deep into Basch’s personal space, used his greater weight and the heft of his armour to press his brother’s arms back nearly onto his chest. “Never wanted to see what you’ll look like when you die?”

“You’ve a strange meaning of brother,” Basch threw him off, Gabranth stumbling with the force of it. “There’s a word for kin-slayer.”

“Aye,” Gabranth laughed. “It’s _Basch_.”

And on they went, fine forms turning quickly to crude brutality. Before long, Basch was joined by Vaan, the young man casting magicks that blasted Gabranth with fire and wind, strengthening his brother against his strikes, Haste and Protect that sped his hands and his feet. Basch got him with the butt of his spear in the diaphragm, but in return Gabranth cut a line across his brother’s chest, near-severing the ruined, ragged cloth of his vest and shirt. He used the opening to dart past his brother, faster than Basch was ready for, and spun the _Highway Star_ to catch Vaan around the legs.

The boy yelped as Gabranth caught him around the unarmoured jut of his ankles, this time with the sharp side of the weapon, unlike when he’d taken Reddas down with the blunt edge. Vaan toppled, ankles and tendons bleeding, his blue eyes frightened and wide as Gabranth caught his dropped sword, jabbed the tip of _Chaos Blade_ through the handle of the hilt, and threw it hard, the weapon spinning with a rattle across the floor, leaving him defenceless but for magic—and in Vaan’s capable hands, that was weapon enough.

Gabranth turned toward Basch, one enemy dealt with, and found his brother with his palm pressed to his bleeding chest, Reddas beside him forcing into his hands a potion, and between them—

Larsa.

Larsa, with his soft face suffused in rage. Larsa, with his eyes as cold as ice and murder. Larsa, his weapons in hand, his breathing heavy with emotion, his cheeks stained with tears.

“Stop this now, Gabranth,” said the boy, his voice thick with order. “Lay down your blades. I can forgive this; you must come back to yourself—“

“No.” Gabranth said it, without thinking, unable to stop himself. “Step aside, Lord Larsa. Do not get between us.” Instead, Larsa stepped closer. “Larsa—“ Gabranth was pleading, watching his lord and master while behind him, Basch regained colour and strength, Vaan scampered across the floor after his lost sword, healing himself one-handed as he went. “Larsa, _please_ , let me through.”

“I shan’t,” Larsa said, his voice dead and angry. “You can beg me all you want, Gabranth—“

“Larsa—“

And in a horrid moment accompanied by the toppling of the world, Larsa struck. Gabranth backed up, out of the reach of his sword, and sidestepped the next one. He ducked, dodged, and moved out of the boy’s way rather than let Larsa score a hit, rather than raise his weapon. He let the boy come into his space, let Larsa strike at him, and then disengaged, turning away from him, turning toward Basch.

This time, his brother came at him with Reddas by his side, both of them striking in tandem. Vaan, behind them, slowed his feet, poisoned him and left him nauseous and weak, but still on Gabranth fought. He pulled no punches except with Larsa, refused to strike at him, refused to fight back. He turned all of that rage and frustration onto Basch, pouring all his strength and anger and _hate_ into the violence of his strikes.

He was slowing, though. One against four was not fair; Gabranth would have wanted it no other way. One against four was a death wish, one against four was suicide.

“Get out of my way!” Gabranth shouted, voice cracking as he threw Reddas aside for the third, fourth, fifth time, turned his blades on Vaan, struck him across the side of the head with the flat of his blade (unable, unwilling to send this brother to follow the other). Vaan stumbled in confusion, hand to the side of his head, barely caught himself on one buckling arm. “Basch!” He broke apart his blades, and here amongst all the Mist that the Sun-cryst had been breathing for lifetimes, a Quickening was all-too-easy to summon to his hands, light and Mist suffusing his blades with magic.

“No!” Larsa screamed, throwing himself forward, wrapping his slim hands around Gabranth’s wrist, dragging him down as he tried to surge forward, toward his brother. “Gabranth, no! Please!” He could not undo it, the Quickening was already roaring in his blood. _Too late_ and Larsa was between them _too late_ and he could only find a way to find an outlet _too late_ and not now not like this—

“Larsa!” Penelo ran forward, grabbing the boy around the waist, dragging him back. “Larsa, get out of there!” She pulled him backwards, the young man kicking and screaming, trying to wrest his way out of Penelo’s arms. He wailed, an anguished cry, torn out of the heart of him, arms outstretched for Gabranth, grief and fear and _need_ for Gabranth to somehow make it all right again—but he had gone beyond Larsa now, gone beyond anything that could be stopped.

When he was dead, Larsa would be better off. When he was dead, Larsa would have no more clouds over the gilt of his reign, he would be an emperor better than any other. Penelo could guard him; Penelo and Basch.

And his brother—Basch had done the same as Gabranth, a Quickening in his blood as well, Mist hanging as swords above his head. “Executioner at last!” Gabranth crowed, vicious and validated, as his brother’s face took on a cruel twist. “Come on, brother! Finish what you started, then! Finish this game!”

“Will you never learn?” Basch’s voice cracked as he yelled back, the storm beyond the walls as tumultuous as their own emotions. “The only one who wants you dead is _you_!”

They struck together, Mist to Mist, Gabranth hitting his brother in the chest with his blades of light, even as Basch’s Mist-swords pierced his body one after another. They were not steel; his armour could not stop or slow them, even as Basch’s own spear could not stop the inexorable arc of Gabranth’s bright fire.

Basch took the hit, thrown backwards with a shout of pain, to skid across the ground, spitting blood. Gabranth took the swords into his breast as one accepts a lost lover, let them pierce him one by one through his chest and abdomen. And, when they burst into flame as bright and immolating as the very Mist that Ashe had dispersed at the moment she had woken the Sun-cryst, he fell with a hoarse scream, his body burning, his mind a blank slate of naught but pain and anguish and he felt free. He felt _free_ , free and forgiven, his slate finally wiped clean.

 

 

All was silence. Gabranth fell to his knees, bleeding heavily from the injuries his brother’s Quickening had left on him, his arms weak. His heartbeat was deafeningly loud in his ears, his panting breath ragged and raw, and across from him, Basch lay just as still, even as the Princess knelt over him, her hands glowing as her Cura knit his skin back together. The blood slowed from his chest, his colour returned. But he did not rise.

Vaan stumbled to his feet, still clutching his head, looking at Gabranth with horrified eyes. Reddas held his side, where it bled sluggishly from a raw wound over his hip, an injury that Gabranth could not remember giving him.

He shuddered, stared at Basch, who watched him back. A mirror to his sins; but one beloved despite it. “So you, too,” he whispered, “Would leave your debts unpaid?” Another tally in the ledger for Basch. Another bloody sin Gabranth would be forced to live with because of him.

At last, Larsa broke from Penelo’s hold, racing across the floor to Gabranth and freezing before him. He looked so much older now than he had moments before; the circles beneath his eyes and the gaunt lines of his cheekbones stood out, cast into shadow by the pulsing cryst. “No,” Larsa whispered, his voice cracking. His gentle fingers touched Gabranth’s cheek, scraping over his stubble. “Of all the things, must you come to this—“

“I yet live,” he whispered, voice hoarse. Larsa shook. “As long as my heart beats in my chest I am a dog who can still be called to heel. Order me, my Lord, and for you, I will do anything. I...” he trailed off, the sound of his blades dropping to the ground too-loud. “Larsa, I’m sorry—“

Larsa shook his head, his words lost and trapped impotent in his throat. His hand fell from Gabranth’s face and in that final act, that motion of disgrace, Gabranth bowed his head, the backs of his eyelids burning, bile trapped in his throat. He had failed, for the last time.

He had failed, and such that even Larsa could not forgive him. Too far, at last.

“Enough of this!” The voice cracked through the air like the rapport of a gun, and all of them spun, even Gabranth raising his hung head to look toward its source, from between the columns of the open wall. “I can bear no more!”

“What?” Gabranth stumbled over the words; surprised and nonplussed. “You!” Balthier shouted, as Doctor Cid walked through the columns, his coat blowing in the gale. In his hand he held the husk of the Dawn Shard, and behind him loomed the hulk of Judge Zargabaath, the glow of the Sun-cryst bitter upon his armour.

Gabranth breathed in a shaking breath, and grasped his swords. He forced himself to his feet and, without thinking, placed himself between Cid and Larsa, the young man behind him. Out of breath, still injured, he could barely stand, could barely _breathe_ , let alone speak or fight. But he would not, after coming through fire and brimstone, he _could_ not let Cid take Larsa.

“You disappoint me, Gabranth.” Cid sneered, shaking his head. “He trusted you.” Gabranth clenched his teeth, raised his weapons, and stumbled toward the man, only for Cid to bat him aside with a gentle push that left him stumbling, his knees almost buckling. “When you bared steel against the Princess, you foreswore your obligations to your emperor!”

“I forsook those long ago,” Gabranth bit back, spitting blood to the flagstones. “I bear no love for your Emperor.”

“Who sits the throne matters not, Lord Larsa is as much Emperor as Vayne.” Cid sniffed. “You _shame_ yourself, and make mockery of Lord Larsa’s trust. You but wish you were deserving of the love he gifted you, that you should shatter it thus.” Gabranth felt sick, to have his failures thrown into his face like mud from, of all, Cid Bunansa.”You are unfit to serve him as either sword or shield.”

“I will lay down my arms when he bids me and no sooner,” Gabranth snarled back, forcing himself back upright.

“And you think he will do so even after your battered body lays dead upon the ground?” Cid laughed, and then cruelly, with almost no sympathy, “Nay. I shall do so in his stead, and spare the boy the humiliation of being responsible for your death. It is a selfish man indeed, who kills himself and lays the blame upon another. I release you from that service, Judge Magister. Your presence is neither required nor welcome.”

His hands shook in anger, his heartbeat thundered. Each beat, he knew, was another pulse of blood between the pieces of his armour, another breath closer to death. But he saw red in that moment in a way he never had even when he looked at Basch. Basch was killing himself, Cid was killing the thing that had taken from him his humanity, his soul, his last hope of salvation, the shame and pride, the blood on his blades.

It had all been worth it, for Larsa. It had all, always, been worth it, for Larsa. If it would lead to his freedom, if it would leave him nothing but himself, Gabranth would kill anyone. Himself. Cid. Vayne. Ashelia.

It mattered not.

He looked up at Cid, who sneered down at him, his handsome face both cruel and motionless. Gabranth straightened, clenched his swords, and watched as Cid walked uncaring past him, toward the Sun-cryst where it floated still, untouched, before Ashelia, who had spurned its gifts. Zargabaath stood back, let him go, knowing there was nothing to stop him now.

It was unthinking, without hesitation. Gabranth took two steps and then lunged, shouting with the effort, at Cid’s unprotected back. “Noah!” Basch yelled, a warning or a plea but regardless of intention _far_ too late, for he could not reverse the swing of his swords now.

Behind Cid, with the tang of hot metal and cordite, spun up Venat. The creature appeared out of the Mist as quick as blinking, intangible and yet all-too-real. It stopped his blades before they ever reached the doctor, and Gabranth looked around wildly—only to find Cid standing patiently beside him, mouth a half-crooked smile.

He lifted his hand, and with a gesture no more than to shoo a bothersome gnat, batted Gabranth off of the ground and sent him flying. He had one last glimpse of Larsa’s face, tear-stained and red and raw with agony, and his brother, who looked at him with fear, before he struck a column headfirst.

His skull cracked on the hit, pain brilliant and blinding and greater than anything he’d ever known. _His helmet_ —gone in Bur-Omisace. Nothing to save him now. He fell to the ground after the hit, slumped, blades clattering from his limp hands, his limbs splayed and lifeless, boneless, as a ragdoll. He did not rise again; could not even if he had wanted to. His vision blurred out, his limbs felt akimbo, his body not his own.

The pain burned.

And then all went blessedly, blessedly dark, and he knew no more.

 

 

Light, and heat.

Larsa, distantly, screaming his name, and the scrape of fingers against his own, pulling him. Pulling at him. Pulling him back, forward, back.

The too-bright throb of his head, shattered and broken and pulsing behind his eyes.

The tingle of magic, and the sharp tang of potions against his dry lips, and voices, incoherent and distant. They were like Mist, intangible and brushing his face.

The freezing cold, heart-starting burst of a Remedy, pressed to the back of his head, his hair wet and soaking. The chill of it was so sudden that he managed to crack his eyes, reeling and violently ill.

They were in the _Strahl_ , Basch was leaning over him, holding the cork for an open potion between his teeth, his hands under Gabranth’s head. Behind him was Vaan, his hands glowing white with magic.

Gabranth groaned, and Basch scowled, his face twisting wildly in Gabranth’s vision, bubbling, distorting, and then abruptly turning completely upside-down. “Hold still,” he growled, and shifted his hands, jarring Gabranth’s head sideways, turning it towards his lap and the bed he was laying on. Gabranth had a moment to realise what was happening, realised he could do nothing to stop it, and then threw up on his brother’s lap. He coughed wetly and spit right after, the taste pungent in his mouth.

Basch swore colourfully in about five different Dalmascan dialects, looking in horror at his lap as he fumbled to keep the Remedy on Gabranth’s head. “For the Gods sake, Noah!” He yelped, bumping Gabranth’s head again, making it throb, as he coughed to clear his throat.

“Fuck you,” Gabranth replied, in slurred Landiser, before he passed out again.

 

 

He woke for the second time being carried down the gangplank of the _Strahl,_ and threw up on the ground, groaning in pain. His head didn’t hurt as much—now it was just on fire rather than literally shattering in half. “Again?” Basch yelped, as another set of hands caught him under the chest, cool, White-magick fingers against his fevered temples.

“Yeah, with a concussion—“ Penelo’s voice. Gabranth stumbled, and his legs went out from under him as he nearly toppled, his knees and ankles giving way, the young woman’s strong arms the only thing keeping him from faceplanting onto the aerodrome floor. He wished, fervently, that he’d been able to hit Basch with it the second time around, too. He deserved it.

 

 

The third time Gabranth woke, it was to the feeling of being carried. His feet were dragging along the unevenly-placed wooden planks of a pier, beneath it the slosh of waves, his toes _thunk_ ing every time they dipped into and out of one of the gaps. It felt tremendously slow—each step seemed to take lifetimes, and he jolted between peoples arms. Voices that were just sounds, no clear words, filled the air around him. It smelled of the clean breath of the ocean and the sweaty tang of armour and vomit and blood, and he could hear his brother’s rough breath in his ear.

“Gods, he’s heavy,” said Balthier, out of breath, from somewhere near or slightly above Gabranth’s right arm.

“He always was fatter than me,” Basch snarled uncharitably, just below his left. He lurched, and Gabranth groaned, his head throbbing.

“Armour,” he murmured, barely able to get the word out. Nobody heard it. It was the armour, the armour was heavy. Why wasn’t he walking on his own—why couldn’t he stand?

“Need to—“ said the voices. “Reddas—“ and “Cid said—“ and “What’s this about—“ and “Bleeding—“ and “Larsa—“

Gabranth stirred at the mention of his name. “Larsa,” he whispered. His lips were cracked and dry.

“Without Larsa,” continued the voice, it was Ashe, “We cannot rely on—“ _Without Larsa._

Gabranth opened his eyes as the words sunk in through his head, struggling to penetrate the empty fog of his scrambled thoughts. The entire world swayed, lurching to the left with a vertiginous pull on his gut as he swung wildly around, his limbs disconnected like a puppet without strings. Beside him—Basch and Balthier, holding him up, tilting alarmingly toward the left even as his feet felt steady enough on the ground. He turned, stumbling. There, before him, Ashe with bandages on her face and arm, Vaan beside her the same as well, both soot-blasted. Fran limping beside Penelo, the girl looking the kind of grey that bespoke too much magick. Was she holding Fran up, or was Fran holding her up, or—

Gabranth lurched, and Balthier lost his hold on his arm. He sagged against Basch, waving his free hand helplessly for an anchor. Basch and Balthier, yes, Ashe and Vaan, yes, Fran and Penelo, yes—no Reddas—no Larsa. “Where’s Larsa,” he murmured, the dock underneath his feet turning to a liquid and rolling under him. Basch lost his other arm and Gabranth stumbled, dropping to a knee, barely catching himself with his other arm. “Where’s. Where’s Lord Larsa—“ he turned around, and if he hadn’t already emptied his stomach earlier, he would have thrown up again, the yawning nausea inside of him pressing high on the back of his throat.

No Larsa.

Gabranth swung back around, half-bent toward the ground. His head felt as heavy as stone, and the back of it was a hot, burning line of pain. He blinked, and it was very slow, like he was underwater. “Where’s Larsa,” he asked, the words slurred—and in Landiser. Why were they in Landiser? He paused for a moment, and tried again, struggling, this time in Archadian Common. The words felt like they were drug out of him; he could hardly remember the right way to say them. “Where’s Larsa?” Basch didn’t answer, and Gabranth managed to straighten, fingers pressed to the back of his head—which was bandaged, and still damp. They came back red with blood. “Where’s Larsa?”

Nobody answered for a moment, and then Vaan spoke. “He...Judge Zargabaath took him. While we were fighting Doctor Cid.” Vaan looked around, his face collapsed in, worried and grey. “We couldn’t get to him in time. He...they just…left.”

Gabranth was very cold. He sagged, and felt Basch catch him before he fell flat on his face. “No,” he whispered. He remembered Larsa screaming his name, in pain, in anguish. He hadn’t been there. Crying for him. He hadn’t been there. The one time he _hadn’t been there_ and Larsa had been taken, they’d dragged Larsa back to Vayne—he had failed Drace. He’d broken his one promise. “When—“

“On the Pharos.” Balthier snarled. “While _you_ were as insensible as a stone.” He was reeling. Reeling, and livid, and furious, and _terrified_ all at once.

Gabranth swung toward his brother from where he was collapsed forward onto one elbow, stumbling away from Basch, and pointed at his twin, who he could now see had his chest bandaged. “You!” His voice cracked, dry, out of his throat. “You let them take him!” Basch looked taken aback, and then, moments later, furious. “You let them go!” He was slurring. It was so hard—to speak—

“ _You_ are his guardian, brother, not I. If you hadn’t—“

“Don’t speak to me!” It came out again in Landiser, and he gave up on trying to speak anything else, for his tongue was as tied and leaden as a stone weighted in armour and thrown into a lake. Gabranth stumbled as he lurched to his feet, grabbed helplessly for his swords, and finally managed to get his hand around the hilt of one of them. “If you hadn’t—“

“If I hadn’t what?” Basch snarled back. “You were the one unconscious on the floor because you tried to kill yourself, and Archades too!” Gabranth spat a jumbled mess of unintelligible words, finally unsheathed _Highway Star_ and then, overbalanced by the weapon, took one step too far and went right over the edge of the dock.

The water was, fortunately, there to catch him, and Gabranth faceplanted directly into the ocean. He caught himself half on one hand, and rolled back over, spitting water between his teeth, hissing as it soaked through the bandage on the back of his head and the salt burned the wound beneath. He got to his feet again, armour and cape sodden, wobbling back and forth like a drunk as he tried to contend with the weight of the wool cape and the sodden armour on top of his pitiable state. Basch jumped down after him, grabbed at his arm, forcibly balanced him back out as Gabranth gasped for breath. “You’ve barely lived,” his brother snapped. “Stop this, you’ll just—“

“I am Judge Magister,” Gabranth snarled back, barely able to raise _Highway Star_ , “Even in disgrace.” Basch still held his free wrist, and he used his brother’s proximity to take a swipe at him. It was like a child on the training salle; Basch didn’t even have to dodge. Gabranth had swung near two feet wide, hardly able to see like he was. He tried again, and this time Basch caught the strike on a vambrace, let it slide off ineffectively.

“You’ll reopen your wounds,” Penelo was limping to the edge of the dock and Gabranth stumbled back away from her, his bootheel catching on his cape, sending him sprawling again with a clatter into the surf even as he futilely waved his sword at his brother.

“You let him go!” Gabranth wailed, voice high and wet with fury. “You let them take Larsa, to be as a hostage, for _Vayne—“_

“I was not his guardian!” Basch snapped back, smacking his sword away and trying to grab him, but Gabranth had managed to regain his knees again, and this time thrust at his brother, making Basch step back to dodge it. “You ever insisted that I not be trusted with your precious charge, and look what that self-assurance has wrought.” Gabranth yelled at him again, still inarticulate, and threw himself forward in a raw, open strike, meant for power and strength and to take Basch’s damned head from his shoulders.

His brother never even drew his weapon, he just caught the strike and then Gabranth’s wrist, his thumb pressed to the tendons and bones, twisting until his blade fell from his limp hand to lay in the sand and surf.

Basch had entered his space, though, and Gabranth had another sword. The _Chaos Blade_ was in his hand, even if he couldn’t see more than just swatches of colour and horrific auras, he knew where Basch was, and he thrust true, to put the blade through his belly.

Basch was ready for it, of course. Gabranth was nothing but a broken, shattered child playing at swords. He took the deadly injury through the ruined cloth of his vest, tangling his sword so Gabranth had to wrestle with it to try and get it back. “It’s futile, Basch!” He snarled, cutting again at his brother. “Long have I walked in hatred’s company. As long as I can curse your name, I shall not be defeated.” He was going to drag Basch down with him so that the sins of the brothers were shared, ruin him completely like he had wanted to in Nalbina dungeon, ruin him and shatter him and destroy him. Destroy Basch the way he wanted Basch to destroy him. They were going to drown together in their shame and anguish, he would smother the man in the heartbreak he felt.

The next thrust was pointless—Basch just grabbed the shaking, naked sword and ignored the cuts to his hand as he pulled it free from Gabranth’s grip, his blood running from his cut palm in quick too-small drips down into the water below.

Gabranth stared at his fingers—disarmed—and felt the beat of his heart in his ears and his head, and sobbed. Was it the salt of tears or the salt of the sea he could taste on his lips, his wet hair plastered to his forehead? He cried, a ragged low wail, as he fell to his knees. Larsa, gone, Larsa gone and _his fault_ when he had done everything, _everything_ and always to protect him.

“And now!” His voice came out hysterical and an octave too high; he felt on the verge of some kind of horrible breakdown, like a mountain crumbled instantaneously to dust. He wanted to die; he wanted to be dead. He wanted Basch to just cut his head from his shoulders and bring an end to it. Perhaps, if he asked and begged, his brother would finally do the deed he had refused when Gabranth had tried to strongarm him to it. “Vayne has his brother, and there shall be no Archadian peace.” He laughed. It made no sense, it didn’t fit, it didn’t _matter_.

“Noah...” Basch stepped forward, his ragtag clothes now in tatters. Gabranth struck out again, wildly, blankly. With nothing but his hands, his swords gone, his artifice stripped from him to reveal the poison beneath. Like he could claw Basch open with his ragged nails, in through the soft viscera of his stomach. Basch grasped the hand that had held _Chaos Blade_ moments before. Another try, another try to run him through; cut him in half with words that wounded more than his discarded weapons. Basch folded his fingers around Gabranth’s hand, and the fact that it was still gentle after everything was the worst part; broke the dam. Noah began crying.

“Do not blame yourself any more.”

“You...” he struggled to find the words. Struggled to find meaning, to find any meanings. His mouth felt like sand, his words like water. His mind was leaving him reeling half-sideways, his legs were too weak to stand. He felt sick, he could hardly see, and his head _hurt_ in a way he’d never really had an injury similar to before. “You _confound_ me, brother!” He managed at last, voice ragged and cracking as hot tears poured over his raw cheeks.

He looked up at Basch, still holding his hand tight in both of his, and cried. Basch watched him back with the strangest look on his face, not of anger or pity, no—but of anguish and regret. Of _love_. “You failed Landis, you failed Dalmasca, all that you were to protect.” Gabranth shuddered, the adrenaline and the anxiety and the fear and his injury and the water leaving him both hot and freezing, clammy and feverish all at once. “Yet you still hold on to your honour. How!?” _How_ when Basch had betrayed everything and everyone he’d ever loved, when Basch left failure in his wake, when Basch could never do what he promised, when Basch was all the things Gabranth wanted to pretend he wasn’t but he _was_.

“I had someone more important to defend,” Basch replied, looking behind him, at the pier, where Princess Ashe waited, bandaged and sore and as beloved of one brother as hated by the other. “And defend her I have. How is it that _you_ have survived? Is it not because you defend Lord Larsa?”

At the sound of Larsa’s name, of now truly his greatest failure, Gabranth ripped his hand away from his brother, and, crying, fell into the surf, one arm supporting him. He wanted to reach into his chest and tear his ribs open so that he might immolate all that remained between them, spill the acrid guts of him out onto the sand. _Anything_ to make this stop hurting.

“Silence!” Gabranth shrieked, gloved fingers clenching in the water-sturdy sand that ran right back through between them moments later. He sobbed, broken, broken. Nothing else had broken him, and this had. “All has been stripped from me!” He shook, hard, all over as he looked up at Basch, his eyes like hateful bruises burning their way out of his own head. “Only hatred for the brother who fled our homeland remains mine! Tell me, Basch!” He threw the sand at his brother’s face, although it being so wet it did little more than splatter on his neck and collar. “Why do you forsake that which you must hold most precious?” Why—how—could, _did_ Basch always throw it away? He would give up on anything, any cause, any person for the greater good. For _his_ ‘greater good.’

“I do as I must, brother.” Basch, patient Basch, understanding Basch, Basch with his level-head and his kind heart and his forgiveness. Basch who could become anything anyone asked of him. The nice twin, the handsome twin, the perfect son of a— “Or is that not answer enough?”

Gabranth stared at him, livid and shaking in rage. Basch spread his arms, his injured chest where Gabranth could reach. Had he been able to pick up his sword, he could have run the man through, taken Basch bloody and visceral down into hell with him, drowned them both in the surf. “Who better than I to take this? Wield your hatred and crush me with it, Noah! I welcome it!”

“Have you your fill of this?” Noah sobbed, his voice raw and ragged and as dead as he felt inside. He felt worn out, like a knife blade sharpened to dust. He was so heavy, so heavy and cold, his head horribly aching. The world reeled as he fell the rest of the way to sit, sprawled and boneless, in the surf. He wanted to throw up again, but couldn’t. He wanted to just—let it all stop. Let it all just stop. He pressed a hand against his face, against the alarm-screeching of his temples and the hazy blackness of his eyes.

“I would ask you the same.” Basch knelt beside him, one hand on Gabranth’s back. His hand was bleeding, still, sluggish and slow. Gabranth could feel the back of his head bleeding as well, and he couldn’t stop crying. “Let this end, Noah.” He sobbed, and it had gone beyond crying now to the disgusting tears of anguish and grief that a mourner poured out of their soul. Snot and drool, his face splotchy and flushed, and the blood on his head didn’t help with the state of things.

“I’ve...” Gabranth whispered, teeth chattering so hard he could barely get the words out. “I’ve no right to be called by that name.” Noah was a boy full of hope, with a beloved brother, and a country he adored. Noah was not a man grown up enshrouded in secrets, more armour than hume, shattered and repaired and ambulatory only for the love of a child. That monster, that heartless creature to whom Dalmasca owed its downfall, that was the grief he had made his peace with, carried with him, that was _Gabranth_ and the corpse he’d inhabited for twenty years until he’d forgotten how to be anything living. Noah was—

“Then live,” Basch tugged on him, until they faced each other, collapsed in the surf, one brother as steady as the sand—always present, to mould to your feet, warm and soothing and a protector—and the other as reckless and raw as a sea at storm, with squalls and winds that shattered masts and drowned sailors, whose placid surface belied the monstrous depths.

Basch cupped his face, pressed their foreheads together, pulled Noah tight into his arms, fingers curled between cracks in his armour and in the soaking wool of his cape. “And reclaim it.”

And on the beach of Balfonheim, shattered irreparably and lost beyond all hope of return, Gabranth cried like a babe in arms, held tight to the brother whom he had lost twenty years before in the fire and anguish of the last days of Landis, and prayed for salvation, for some saving grace, for—

Redemption.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just so yall all know the scene at the beach was literally the entire reason i wrote this fucking fanfi c LMFJAOHF


	5. kiss me goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noah had only two thoughts—first, get Larsa back. Second, stop Vayne.
> 
> Third? Die trying.

Basch cast Sleep on him when they reached the manse, and for near two days, Gabranth slept. He rested, unknowing of the outside world, safe in the darkness and the quiet of the long, endless night. The only thing that he felt in the lazy darkness of that magickal rest was the cool, gentle pulse of Cura, Curaga, Curaja, and the shift of his body, so far away.

When he woke, it was to the sunset. Out the window of the room in which he lay, the sun was descending over the ocean in stained-glass ochres and fresh-blood red, beaten gold. The whitecaps of the waves lapped against the low curve of the horizon, and the few clouds that hung in the sky were heavy and soft as gauzy cotton.

Gabranth rose. Slowly. Each motion let him feel the damage to his body—his head, still bandaged, and he felt the back of his skull with a wince. There was a healing gash there, along with the still-pressing fugue of the concussion he’d received along with it. Someone had stripped him of his armour—Basch, no doubt—and with it gone he had been left in only the bandages on his torso.

It took time to take stock. Cracked ribs—that was no doubt from Cid’s Mist-enhanced backhand to his chest, that would have liked to crush his torso had he not been wearing armour. All around his chest were the slim gashes from the Mist-swords his brother had sliced into him with, cleaving like paring blades through muscle. He was lucky he hadn’t been more injured. His right wrist, sprained and splinted, and various other cuts and bruises and burns, three broken fingers on his left hand. He still felt nauseous and unbalanced, still felt fuzzy and strange, but slowly Gabranth pushed himself to his feet and stood, leaned one hand against the wall, tested his legs.

They trembled, but took his weight.

He was not in the room he had shared with Larsa last time. There were two other beds—one, with his brother’s castoff, distinctive, too-large red vest that was in the midst of a repair job, and the other Ashe’s, the Treaty-Blade awkward and out of place against the sheets. Their bags were dumped on the floor, and his armour sat on a mannequin someone had dug up, his ruined cape hanging from one of the curtain rods. Someone had been trying to mend it. It was not a terrible job.

Slowly, Gabranth began to walk. Each step was exhausting, and he sank into the nearest chair after less than ten steps. They were clearly somewhere nearby, Basch and his Queen and the rest of their cortege as well, and Gabranth forced himself up again to find them. By the time he reached the door of the room he felt ill and nauseous again, but he kept moving.

Now that he was standing, he could tell that he’d likely dislocated his right shoulder somewhere in there as well, the arm weak and awkward and hanging somewhat distended at his side. Outside, in the hallway of Reddas’ manse, there was a pile of magitek junk that led to the end of the hall, to the office. Amongst this junk were more weapons than Gabranth had seen in many a day—almost everything that had been held on the _Strahl_ throughout their journey, his own blades included.

At the end of the hall, through the half-cracked door to the office, voices came. Gabranth glanced down at himself—wearing the breeches he had bought in Nalbina, but otherwise naked—he wished for the shirt he had bought as well, but had no option, and was decent enough. He walked down, leaning against the wall for support, and opened the door at the end at last.

Inside was a scene of barely controlled chaos. More weapons, magick scrolls, junk and monster parts and gambit pamphlets. Old armour, some of it dented and ripped, food ingredients, nonperishables. On the ground, his legs splayed and a list stacked up between his knees, was Vaan, shirtless and still bandaged in a few places. Penelo was next to him with an ink pen tucked behind her ear, wearing an ill-fitting dress clearly recently purchased, sorting through their gil.

Fran had taken up the small table and couch area over, six travel bags piled up next to her her, and each one half-packed. Balthier was beside her, and the magitek junk was clearly from whatever he was doing, half of the table taken over by several pieces of airship engine and skystone. The _Strahl_ , no doubt.

At Reddas’ desk sat the Lady Ashe, her face in her hands, wearing a shirt that had clearly been meant for Basch, the linen far too large on her slim shoulders, her short hair pinned up out of her way. Al-Cid Margrace, of all people, was sitting on the tabletop, chewing on one leg of his glasses, his ass square in the middle of an Ivalice map that he and Ashe were both staring at, makeshift troop pieces placed here and there. Most of them were paper, but there were a few nuts and bolts, what looked like an old potion bottle, a tusk from some dead thing, and right over Rabanastre, an empty stein, turned upside down with what appeared to be a series of Dalmascan curse words scrawled all over it. Basch stood with his Queen, wearing yet another shirt someone had cast off. Probably Reddas.

It was not a particularly talkative room, no jovial mood there. Fran was talking to Penelo and Vaan, checking their supplies and the list. Penelo would cross things out, Vaan would hand the stuff over to Fran, who would fill the bags. Balthier seemed to not hear or see anyone—

He was wearing his father’s glasses.

Gabranth looked away before he thought about that any longer.

Al-Cid, Ashe, and Basch were speaking in low voices, moving the pieces about the map in quick flurries, and then slowing, slumping. The noise of the door opening appeared to have not been heard by anyone, and for a few quiet minutes Gabranth leaned against the doorframe and watched all of them work, the kind of desperate, too-fast preparations he had seen a hundred, thousand times before an impossible battle. When you brought everything you could, nothing you didn’t need, nothing you couldn’t carry. Knowing you might never come back.

It was Penelo who noticed him, as she leaned back to ask Vaan about Ethers, and she looked over her shoulder and paused, her eyes going wide. “Oh,” she whispered, turning properly to see him, pushed to her knees. She had gotten her colour back since he had last seen her, but her blonde hair loose around her face gave away her exhaustion. Too much effort for braids. “You’re awake.” One by one, her companions followed her gaze. Vaan first, who looked at Gabranth for a moment with disgust and fear, but then schooled his face so it was soft and smooth and blank. Fran next, whose face gave away nothing at all. Al-Cid, who seemed disinterested in Gabranth as he was in almost all other things, Ashe who stared at him like she could have pierced him clean through with her eyes alone. Balthier, who glanced at him and then looked away, raw and wounded all on his own.

And Basch. Basch, who turned around, and without hesitation, crossed the room, and pulled Gabranth into his arms.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. It was—claustrophobic—tighter and more oppressive than his armour ever had been. It was crushing him and breaking his bones and he couldn’t move. He was drowning in the touch. He wanted to scream and throw Basch away, but Basch just held him. Pressed his face into Gabranth’s neck, his palms warm on his bare back.

Gabranth shook, his breath ragged like he’d run a mile and bottled high in his throat. He felt cut adrift and violently sick. And—needy. So awfully, awfully, so needy.

All-too-gently. All-too-slowly. He wrapped his arms back around Basch’s chest, fingers trembling. He closed his eyes. And he began to cry, the great, body-wracking sobs that accompanied grief, mourning, his shoulders caving in with it, his fingers hitching up to clutch into Basch’s long hair, his body collapsing inward into his brother’s arms. Basch held him, Basch held him with all the love and kindness in the world. Basch, whom he had never done anything but betray, held him close and tight and safe and—

“Noah,” his brother whispered, fervent, and kind.

Noah broke down.

 

 

It took him almost twenty minutes to stop hyperventilating. When he was finally not wailing in his brother’s arms, Basch helped him over to one of the couches, and he collapsed there, exhausted, as Penelo shoved food into his hands, forced him to drink several potions, and cast Protect to strengthen him, before she began to Cure him. He dried his eyes, surreptitiously, on the back of one hand, tried not to look his brother in the eye.

It was not Noah’s first time recovering from a concussion and great injury besides, and he took it slow as he ate, let the young woman start to patch him up. “You are far better than some Imperial Healers,” he told Penelo honestly as he ate the plain bread and cheese she had handed him. It wasn’t particularly what he’d like while recovering, but it would prove if he could hold proper food down. “You and Vaan could have a future before you as royal physicians, if you so chose.”

“That’s like, the exact opposite of a sky pirate,” Vaan replied. “Boring.” Both he and Penelo had flushed with the praise, though, and the girl had a smile on her lips.

“Well, you didn’t make it easy.” Penelo settled back on the table by the couches, her knees tucked up between her hands. “You’re the least agreeable patient I’ve _ever_ had. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Only every healer I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

Penelo gave him a look. “You should stop being a pain about it, if you’re going to get hurt so much.” Noah had the good sense to look chagrined as he felt the back of his head. “Be careful with that,” Penelo warned. “Fran said it needs to stay bandaged at least another day, for the skin to finish knitting.”

“What happened?” Noah asked, letting his fingers fall and wincing at the strain in his still-swollen shoulder. “I don’t remember—anything. After—“ After he had tried to convince Ashe into taking his head from his shoulders, and Archades with it. He could not bear to look at the Princess; and it appeared the feeling was mutual.

“Nothing?” Basch said, leaning forward to look at him. “You don’t remember fighting me on the pier?” Noah paused. Licked his dry lips.

“No,” shame clouded his voice, stung his face. “I remember that, aye, clear enough for me to wish I didn’t.” At least, he remembered something of that sort had happened. He didn’t remember most of what he said, and it was probably the best for it. He didn’t bother trying to apologise. It wouldn’t have mattered. He’d tried, and failed, and he was prepared to admit he would never succeed at any sort of proper atonement. “I meant...everything else.” He remembered Cid, all poison-sweet words and pulsing power. “Cid arrived, and then I have naught else until I threw up on Basch’s lap.”

His brother grimaced. “You had to remember that?”

“It was the most cathartic thing I’ve done in years,” Noah replied, straight-faced. “You could not pay me to forget it. I’ll remember the look on your face until the day I die.” Basch scowled at him. “But now is not the time for jests,” Noah rubbed his aching temples, and conjured up a bit of his own magick to brush away that ache. “Where is Larsa?”

And Basch began to explain.

The sketch that took shape in front of him in his brother’s words was one that left Gabranth with a yawning pit in his stomach. Cid’s death was unsurprising—he had guessed as much from Balthier wearing his father’s glasses—as was the news of the Sun-cryst’s destruction, and Reddas along with it. Zecht had been like Noah was: he was just looking for a cause to die for. He’d found it, and he wished the man the best. Perhaps in death he could find the peace Noah still could not even begin to imagine in life.

But Larsa…

It was a physical effort to force himself not to picture the image Basch painted for him, of Zargabaath dragging Larsa away from his collapsed body, Larsa desperately trying to wake him up with potions. Larsa screaming, as the rest of them could do nothing, trapped by Famfrit and Cid as Larsa struggled. Pleading, Noah’s blood on his face and hands, before he’d vanished into the raging storm.

Back in Archades by now, no doubt. Or with Vayne.

And there, that was another whole problem. The _Bahamut_ was something Noah was at least familiar with; he had been headed the sprawling intelligence operation that had kept the thing hidden and secret from Rozarria for the six years Cid had been working on it. He knew its plans, its weaknesses. Here he could be useful. He did not like the idea of it advancing on Rabanastre like a particularly ominous stormcloud, but he could see how they had made the wise decision to take time to rest, recover, and prepare. It would get to Rabanastre when it got there, regardless of if they forced themselves to exhaustion or not.

When Basch was done, Noah pushed himself to his feet and swayed for a moment, one hand balancing him against the back of the couch, before he turned around and walked to the desk, paused. Al-Cid and Ashe slowly looked up at him. “Do you have something you want to say, Judge Magister?” Ashe asked after a time, her voice as arch and imperious as her birth.

“Take me with you,” Noah replied. Her face creased for a moment with disgust, and then cleared as she settled her mask back into place. “To the _Bahamut_. I must go, Lady Ashe. I...” he trailed off, licked his cracked lips. There was no good way to explain the morass of feelings bottled up in his chest. “I was in charge of many of the plans for the _Bahamut_ , it was I who oversaw its secret construction and a great deal of the manpower that led to its successful completion.” He settled on after a moment. “I can help you find where to dock, how to take it down from the inside. It is the least I can do to end this war that I created. And, moreover...Lord Larsa.”

“Cid was right.” Ashe threw it back in his face. “You forfeit that responsibility the moment you drew steel on me. Looking for a place to die, Judge Magister? I shan’t bear the responsibility for your corpse. You’re hardly fit to stand, anyway. You would only slow us down, _if_ we could even trust you.” She rose, and Gabranth quailed—she had a presence, one she had finally stepped into as her own, that could cow a room. He had met her father only once, but the daughter had inherited thrice his stature. “I will not so easily forget your naked steel on the Pharos. Basch may have it in the goodness of his heart to forgive you, but I—“

Gabranth cut off her tirade by (painfully slowly, it seemed, like the creaking fall of an ancient oak) taking his knee before her.

“I will not...so easily. Forget what you have done.” Ashe trailed off, her face soft with surprise as Noah bowed his head before her, his hand on his knee, his bare neck granting her his obeisance.

“I cannot,” his voice came out dry and raw, “Swear to you any oath of loyalty. I am a hound of Archades, Your Majesty, and I will die that way as I have lived. To profess any differently would be to lie, and I have done enough of that these twenty years. Dalmasca’s blood is on my hands. I know this better than any other. To throw your kindness in your face was base cowardice, aye, and unbefitting of my oaths. But...”

He looked up at her, and saw that her façade had cracked.

“Lady Ashe,” Noah whispered. “I have failed at a great many things in my life. I failed Landis. I failed my brother, and innocent Dalmasca with him. I failed you, and I failed my oaths. I am no Judge Magister if I cannot arbitrate myself, and no man more faithless has ever yet walked this Ivalice.” His hands slid off of his knees, and Noah bowed, on his hands and knees on the floor of Reddas’ office, the man’s ghost heavy behind him. “Please.” It was as fervent a plea as a man had ever given; moreso. “Please, Lady Ashe. Your Majesty, I realise I am no more befitting of your grace than is Vayne. I know another chance is unearned, undeserved. But Lord Larsa is—everything. To me. I would die for him, aye, but I would _live_ for him as well.” He looked up at her.

“Your Majesty, I beg of you. Take my sword arm, and let me cleave ruin on your foes in Lord Larsa’s name. Let me save him. I—“ he choked, almost sobbed again. “I cannot bear to let the last he sees of me be my failure at achieving all he held most dear. I cannot die before I atone.”

It was silent in the office for a long time. Every breath was as loud as the slide of steel upon steel.

“You would have me trust your word?” Ashe said at last. “You? Why should I give you anything you ask for? If you want so much to help Larsa stay somewhere you won’t get in the way, or die in his name.”

“I swear on my mother’s grave.” He had no truer oath save one; Larsa rose above all. Above his mother, Landis, and his broken kin-bond with his beloved, bedamned brother. “I raise my sword arm only for him. _Please_ , Your Majesty. Let me, if needs must, die in his name. But let me atone far better by _living_. I will see your Dalmascan peace, and I will see Archades with Larsa Solidor on the throne.” Even if he had to die, although he knew it would be the worst curse he could place upon Larsa. Sometimes, that was what had needs be done.

Ashe closed her eyes. “I can only wish,” she murmured, “That I had but one man so half as loyal again to me as you are to Larsa. You may come.” Gabranth breathed a sigh of relief. “But you must answer to him, when all is done, as to why you thought it was a good idea to go into a war while _concussed._ ” That was an argument he could have, but he could not let Ashe’s words hang. She had spoken an untruth; one ill that he had to acknowledge.

Gabranth rolled back to his knees, and glanced over his shoulder at his brother. Basch stood by the couch where he had left him, face badly masked, blue eyes bright and staring at his Queen. “Your Majesty,” Noah said after a moment, not looking away from his twin, “If you think you have no retainer as loyal as I to Lord Larsa, then forgive me, but you are blind.” He could feel, more than see, Ashe shift to look at his brother.

The words clicked and Basch scowled, his fair skin flushing the same colour as his vest, cast-off still on his bed, and bowed his head. “Your Majesty,” he croaked, and Noah smiled.

 

 

Despite the two days of rest, the _Bahamut_ and Resistance armies were only just about to converge on Rabanastre. _Bahamut_ was a massive creature, aye, but not fast for it—the fortress was meant for intimidation and sheer glacial power, not to break the front lines. The Sky Fortress had been hidden in the Jagd Naldoa, where it could not be easily reached, and it did not move quickly. Much like Archadian Judges, it was monstrously powerful, but not quick.

Facing it down was Marquis Ondore’s fleet, and manoeuvring an entire army was no easy feat. Two days was remarkably fast for both forces to meet in the middle, over Rabanastre, and Ashe had decreed a rest to prepare her badly damaged party, to refit the Strahl. Now, all that done and Gabranth joining their number, they would leave to arrive in Rabanastre about the same time as the two armies that fought over not only its soul, but its survival as well.

Their dinner was a sombre affair. Al-Cid left before eating, racing back to Rozarria to prepare for the worst, should their attempts to take down the _Bahamut_ be for nought. The rest of them ate lightly, Gabranth most of all, and then finished preparing for the flight. The aerodrome was empty, almost all ships grounded with the coming war. It wasn’t safe to be in the skies; they were certainly reckless, doing what they were about to.

They could easily be shot out of the air before they ever even reached Rabanastran airspace. Especially with the Empire on alert as it presently was.

The _Strahl_ , with whatever adjustments Balthier had done, took off like a dream, the pirate deftly flying low to the ground to stay out of Archadian airspace as much as possible. When they did meet a patrol, he stopped, idling, cloaked in order to avoid detection. There was little conversation, everyone lost in their thoughts or too nervous to speak. Noah spent the better part of it in the back of the cockpit, fixing some of the damage to his armour so that it might be wearable upon their arrival. Penelo had declared him fit for moving, but had glowered when he had suggested combat, and his head still ached despite it all.

When the sun began to rise, and they were no longer over the ocean, he glanced up as Basch rose and came over, balanced with a hand against the bulkhead as they flew. “Need a hand?” His brother asked, eyebrows cocked, and Gabranth glanced down at his armour. “Not my first time squiring.” He considered turning it down—it wasn’t his first time squiring himself—but then knew better than to look a gift chocobo in the mouth.

“If you have no objections.”

“I would not have offered had I minded.”

 

 

They went to one of the cabins. His armour had been badly damaged in the fight atop the Pharos—Basch’s Mist swords had not cut the metal or leather, but Cid’s strike had nearly caved in the breastplate, and one or two of the straps had snapped. With his shoulder and ribs, getting on the leather was far more difficult than getting the armour, and it took both brothers to get him suited up before they started to strap on the armour, Gabranth taking care of his own vambraces once again while Basch did everything he couldn’t easily reach.

“Did you do this all yourself, before the Pharos?” Noah grunted with the laces in his mouth.

“No. Larsa helped. He insisted, much as you did.” Basch rose from where he had been fixing Noah’s greaves, and hefted his cuisses as Noah fixed his couters. “He has grown so, in these past weeks. He hardly seems the boy he was when he left for Bhujerba.”

“The children all age before their time in war. Did we not do the same?” They had; those last few months before the fall of Landis had been heartbreaking. They had been carefree boys, before that.

“Your Ashe is more Queen than Princess, now. She grows beyond your charge.”

“Royalty.” He could hear the laughter in Basch’s voice. “The trials of serving. I would have it no other way. Her father and Rasler both would be proud to see how far she’s come.” The mood changed, then, and Noah felt deeply subdued.

He had killed a great many, to bring them here to the edge of the precipice.

They remained quiet again until Basch was strapping on his breastplate, Noah wincing with every jostle as it tightened against his bruised ribs, and then Basch stopped, hands on his shoulders.

“You must promise me something, brother.” Being referred to like that, like almost nothing had happened, still made the bile rise in Noah’s throat. He felt _wrong_ to wear that word—like the skin he was inhabiting was not his, but some shell of a boy who had been dead for twenty years, and not the ruined, ragged man who had taken his place.

“Ask.”

“Don’t go looking for a place to die.” Noah hissed a breath between his teeth. “If you get yourself killed for him after all this, Larsa will never forgive you. Dying is easy. Live, and atone. It is all you can do.” His gazed bored straight through Noah, and try as he might, he could not break the contact. Basch had him pinned like a fly to a board.

Basch was right.

“I shall do my best,” Noah settled for, because he could not in good faith promise it. He could not promise he would live because, if he had to, he would die for Larsa in whatever hell was shortly to come. He could not promise, for it would be a promise he would break. Zecht had gone looking for a place to die, and found it. Now, in what he was almost sure were his last hours alive, Noah would not lie.

Now, with his last few amends made, there was nothing stopping Gabranth doing the same.

 

 

In the midday sun, the skies above Rabanastre glittered with airships thick as flies above a corpse, carrion birds circling the carcass of Dalmasca far below, breathing her last. There was hardly a shred of free air between the Archadian and Resistance fleets, and Balthier slowed the _Strahl_ to a gentle float beyond the paling as they all stared, speechless. “Gods,” Basch whispered after a time, leaning over the front console to look out at the scene before them of carnage and cannon fire.

“What,” Ashe said, pushing him aside, Balthier growling something impolite when he got his controls jostled as the Princess stared at the _Bahamut._

“I never saw it complete.” Noah admitted, staring at it as well. It was taller than the Pharos, a monstrous magitek creation that dwarfed Rabanastre. It had been in pieces during construction, but it seemed in the time between when he had left Vayne’s command to protect Larsa and now, Cid had seen the thing complete before his death. “Gods be good...” the glossair rings alone were each the size of some of the frigates in the Resistance fleet. He knew the layout, but without that knowledge, how long could a single man stumble about in that leviathan of a ship?

“And you say Doctor Cid _built_ this?” Ashe looked back at him, Noah nodding to her question.

“Six years, his last great creation. No doubt, Venat had a hand in it. There is Occurian grandiosity in that make.” No hume ever thought at that size; it reeked of collaboration. Aye, and of Mist too. Leaning forward next to his brother, Ashe shuffling to curl around the back of Fran in the co-pilot’s seat, Balthier snarling some choice insults as Noah almost elbowed him in the face, he gestured at the top of the glossair rings. “The dock for ships is there. If you can get inside its firing range, there’s nothing it can do to you. It’s a sitting duck without its fleet to back it up.”

“At that size, I would think not. It’s a dreadnought, it’ll be useless in a scrimmage.” Balthier adjusted his controls, spiralled forward, not yet entering the battle arrayed below them. Once they were in combat, they would not be able to turn back. “The real danger is in getting there without being shot to pieces before we ever get within a mile of it.”

That was not a problem Gabranth could solve. That navigation was entirely on Balthier, not him. “Once within the structure, all we have to do is move upward. The command centre is at the top; Vayne and Larsa are certain to be there, if anywhere.” No doubt Vayne was commanding his fleet; he was a master tactician and needed to be in the action.

“Then we have our course.” Balthier finally shifted out of his idling proper, and waved a hand to the lot of them. “Sit yourselves back down before I fling you all across the cabin. Gods know between the lot of us we’ve enough broken and bruised bones without exacerbating that here and now.” They strapped back in and then he lurched from stillness to rocketing forward, the force of their speed rocking them even while seated.

Vaan looked extremely proud of their speed, grinning at the back of Balthier’s head. “I _told_ you that would work.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

As Balthier spun and spiralled into the fray, they flew over the heads of the Resistance fleet, and as they passed over the flagship, Balthier handed back the comm mic to the Princess without looking up from what he was doing. “You’re going to want that,” he warned her. “I don’t want your Uncle shooting fire up my tail.” Ashe took it and waited as the pirate flipped to the right broadcasting frequency, using one of the many that was utilised for inter-ship communication of non-confidential information in the Bhujerban army.

“Uncle!” Ashe said, a little louder than was necessary, and then adjusted her voice down as she realised she was yelling, “It is I!” She floundered for a moment, unsure of where to continue, and Balthier grunted.

“Tell him what the hell we’re _doing_ , Princess.”

“Right,” she murmured, and then continued. “I’m crossing to the _Bahamut_ to stop Vayne!” She let go of the mic to wait for his response, and the radio crackled for a moment before it picked up the Marquis’ voice.

He sounded, if Noah had to put a word to it, _put out_.

“What are you saying?” There was some interference; privately Gabranth considered telling the man to step to a damn console rather than yelling. There was a time and place for drama and presence, and trying to have a conversation over radio was not it. “You are too rash! Your duties come after the battle is over!”

The _Strahl_ was silent for a moment, and then Fran burst into uncharacteristic honking laughter, her ears bouncing as she doubled over at the helm. “You!” She looked back at Ashe, whose fair face was creased in a mix of furious anger and surprise at the viera, “Sit out a battle, let another fight for you?” She shook her head and grinned. “Methinks your Uncle knows you not, Ashe!”

Ashe sniffed, imperiously. And then verbally rounded on the Marquis. “If we allow them to destroy us here, there will be no after.” And then, just to beat him about the head with it, “You must assist our charge.”

“Stop. You must pull back!” Balthier spun the _Strahl_ out of a line of fire from the _Alexander,_ teeth grit.

“Man doesn’t know when to stop. Basch, I thought you said he used to steal Ashe on a regular basis. When’d he become responsible?”

“Stop the _Strahl_ ,” Ondore said, speaking to the men on his end of the comm no doubt, and Vaan rolled his eyes.

“Seriously?” he scrambled out of his chair and slid over Ashe, plucking the mic from her hands. “This is dumb.”

“Vaan!” The Princess yelped, as she wrestled with him to try and get it back, but it was too late.

“Hold it!” Vaan barked, and then quickly pressed a couple of buttons on the side, switching the modes on the input. “I mean, w-wait!” His voice came out as his own, but the comm modulated it to sound like Larsa’s, as strange as sight as any he’d ever seen. Gabranth blinked—Balthier had installed a _voice changer_ in his ship? “This is Larsa Solidor! I’m going in with her! So...” Vaan paused, his face contorting as he tried to figure out what Larsa would say, their speaking styles wildly different in Archadian Common. “We’re fine!” He settled on after a long moment, and Noah groaned, slid down in his chair. “I got the Princess covered!”

“Larsa Solidor?” To say that Ondore didn’t sound convinced wasn’t the half of it. Penelo put her face into her hands with an audible smack.

“Good job.” she muttered at Vaan, who didn’t even have the good sense to look chagrined. “They’re never gonna believe that.”

“So you hold him as a hostage?” Gabranth hissed, and Ashe ripped the mic back out of Vaan’s hands, the two of them fumbling over it for a moment before Ashe emerged victorious.

“No, Uncle.” She was covering for Vaan as best she could. “He will fight with us against Vayne!” Another scuffle ensued at that, Balthier groaning audibly as Vaan and Ashe rocked the cabin back and forth with their struggles over the mic.

“Leave it to us!” Vaan insisted—which was a little pointless, but he probably had done it mostly to mess with the mic again. Rather than letting him hand it back to Ashe, Noah leaned forward and plucked it from the boy’s hand. The Marquis’ silence unsettled him.

“Give me that,” he muttered, and Vaan looked rather peeved at having lost control of the mic. “Marquis Ondore!” He raised his voice, enunciating clearly in a way neither of the Dalmascans had. He, at least, had plenty of practice with being heard on a comm, and often through a helmet to boot. “This is Judge Magister Gabranth. I am accompanying the Princess, Lord Larsa, and her party into the _Bahamut_. The structure is known to me; I promise you her safety is all but assured should Balthier be able to safely deliver us within the Sky Fortress’ firing range.” Balthier glared at him, but didn’t say anything. “Your niece has the right of it,” he continued, rather than wait for Ondore to reply, barreling over his unspoken qualms. “She must needs make a stand to stop Vayne here. Otherwise, all hope is lost.”

The line was silent as he handed the radio back to Ashe, who looked surprised. “I,” said Ondore, after a long moment. Apparently, the idea that Gabranth had joined them had stunned him—surely the rumour had gotten around by now? But apparently not. “If you are sure,” he settled on after a moment. “I find your companions unexpected, Ashe, but if you are certain—“

“I am, Uncle.” Her voice was fervent. “Larsa and the Judge Magister are no less committed to a lasting peace than I am. You _must_ get us through.” She paused, her voice dropping. “Please.” The silence stretched long after that, until Ondore’s voice finally crackled back through:

“Understood.” A palpable tension lifted from the cabin, and Ashe nearly collapsed back into her seat. “Our fate is in your hands.” Vaan grinned, looking at Ashe in triumph as she smiled back at him in turn, both of them looking startlingly young—their true age, and not the maturity they had worn as a second skin of late.

“Yes!” Vaan pumped his fist and tossed the mic back to Balthier, who missed catching it and was clonked in the side of the head, swearing angrily as he fumbled to jam it back into the console, both hands back on the wheel.

“’I got the Princess covered’?” Penelo asked, leaning around the back of Vaan’s chair, looking at him incredulously. He sniffed.

“Larsa’d say that.”

“You sound very sure of yourself,” Gabranth replied. “I cannot honestly say I have ever heard him say such a thing. Or any similar combination of words.” Vaan shrugged.

“Well, he should try it. He’d be less stuffy.” Penelo groaned and flopped back in her chair.

“Oh, shut up,” Balthier snapped back at the cabin, tense but good-natured as everyone strapped back in and he flicked open the comm channel again. “We’re relying on you for fire support!” He told Ondore—which was smart, as the _Strahl_ was not exactly meant for the kind of large-scale combat and covering force that they would need to get through the scrimmage before the _Bahamut_. “Give them something to think about. We’ll pick our moment and make our move.” He let go of the comm, and barked to everyone in the cabin one final warning: “If anyone is standing when I start flying and they break their damn fool heads, they’ve only themselves to blame!”

And then he shot forward, with that their only warning before they entered into the fray.

 

 

From this far above, Rabanastre looked like a tiny island of verdure in a sea of burnished sand. The desert stretched out almost to the feet of the far distant the mountains upon the horizon, endless and parched as death. Rabanastre glowed with life—all too fleeting, that would be snuffed out if they failed. Oh, Noah held no delusions: if Vayne won, he would almost certainly see the city razed to the ground. Bhujerba as well, for he had never been a kind and forgiving man.

Balthier’s piloting was perfection in the air—he could, as far as Gabranth could tell, dodge just about anything. He spun the ship to and fro, crashing what few foolhardy Imperials that tried to tail him into one another, and flew so low to the tops of the ravines that if they’d had an open hatch, Gabranth could have seen his spit hit the ground. But, the ploy worked—almost no ships were brave enough to follow them, nobody a good enough pilot to keep up at that height. It let them slip behind the enemy lines, and that close to the _Bahamut_ , it was a clear shot up to the dock, Balthier and Fran mumbling to one another as they dodged a few loose shots, another ship speeding by, narrowly missing the glossair rings.

“There!” Gabranth pointed, Balthier glancing back to follow the line of his hand. “Just up there, at your eight. Within the rings.”

“That’s a stupid place to put it,” the pirate growled, but banked slowly to ease toward the ring, the _Strahl_ barely narrow enough to make the tight curves. His docking job was flawless, and as soon as he’d anchored the ship he was out of the captain’s seat. “Let’s go,” he snapped, speeding back through the body of the ship, his footsteps clattering. “I’ve got a bad feeling about all this. I want to be in there ten minutes ago.”

The rest of them followed, the same tension in their own blood and bones. They raced into the bowels of the _Bahamut_ , Fran leading the way, her heels clicking on the floor. The fortress and its yawning, impossible size swallowed them up.

Noah had only two thoughts—first, get Larsa back. Second, stop Vayne.

Third? Die trying.

 

 

There was something almost poetic about the _Bahamut_. Cid had aspired to become as unto a god, throwing the Occurians from their immortal and timeless thrones, and in doing so had made the first hume creation to rival the magnificence of Giruvegan, the Great Crystal, and the Pharos. The Bahamut was near as big as the Pharos was simply in terms of bulk—it had taken up the sky before Rabanastre like a monstrous calamity, and to be within it felt akin to being swallowed whole still-living by some terrible beast.

As they clattered into the fortress proper, dwarfed by the massive soaring hallways, Ashe came to a halt, her heels skidding on the spit-shine polished floor, looking about. “Vayne, and Larsa like as not, will be in the fortress’ command tower,” Gabranth explained again, gesturing above them. “It sits atop us, in the centre of the structure. If we go in toward the central spire, we should be able to find an elevator directly up.”

“Aye,” Balthier nodded, loading his gun as he spoke, “I saw something of the like on our way in here. Right above our heads—you’ve brought us into quite the adders’ nest, Judge Magister.”

“We need not fight all the Empire to win.” Strange words, coming from the Princess, but Gabranth was beginning to learn in recent days that she was a strange woman, who was anything but his expectations of her. Even after all his time travelling with her, he had not seemed to learn to know her at all. She turned around, her face hard. “If we can get to Vayne, we can put an end to this war.” Noah did not speak it, but he thought it: with Vayne was Larsa.

“Let’s get going, then.” Vaan, cocky and energetic as ever. “Find Vayne, wherever he’s perched, and knock him off.”

“What, like flinging a rock at a bird?” Penelo laughed. Vaan shrugged.

“I mean, it works on birds.”

“Let’s just go,” Basch said, cutting off the bickering. He started to take a few steps, and then paused, directionless, and looked over to Gabranth. “Brother—you lead?”

Gabranth hesitated, and then drew his swords, locking their hilts together, and nodded. Here, he was more than merely a weight on all of their shoulders, a chain to be dragged on their ankles. “This way,” he said, gesturing for them to follow him, as he took off down one of the side halls, working from his memory of the blueprints of the structure. “We need to be at the cardinal directions; we can find a way into the core from there.” They followed him, seven sets of footsteps resounding off the fortress floor.

As they ran through the bulkheads of the _Bahamut,_ Noah felt an ache in his chest, absolute and cold. It was _homesickness_ , as tangible as breathing in each of the halls they walked and ran through. Here were all the trappings of Archadia that he had thrown at the wayside when he had abandoned kin and country for Larsa. The armour, the military drills, the styles of fighting. Here were soldiers who had answered to Ghis, Bergan, Drace, and himself before all of them had fallen from grace and glory in one way or another, leaving Zargabaath at the head of the might of the Imperial armies, the last remaining dog of House Solidor who would willingly come to heel. Archadia, where everything was made out of utilitarian steel, warm earthy tones, the Solidor seal inscribed large on doors and floor. Archadia, that had sheltered him, welcomed him with open arms, had begged for him to call it home.

Archadia, as broken and shattered as a toppled vase left in shards on the floor as a lesson to the wary, but beautiful regardless—beautiful despite (or perhaps, because of) the ruin of its lovely bones.

As they worked their way inward, avoiding soldiers and patrols was nigh-on impossible. When they ran into armed soldiers, Gabranth did not attempt to tell his companions to stay their hands—this was war. In war, you killed or you were killed; he had learned that when Landis had fallen. There was no such thing as pulling punches when lives were on the line. Gabranth held his blade back when and where he could, putting all his remaining energy toward getting them safely toward the command tower.

He was in no fit shape to fight regardless. He would have only been a liability, and none among their number was uninjured. He did not need to make it worse by forcing them to protect him in battle.

Noah had known, when he had pledged to Ashe to guide her and hers to Vayne, that coming with them would be difficult, if not impossible. His concussion from the Pharos was nowhere near healed, his balance severely compromised, his body aching with every step. Wearing his armour over his bruised and still-cracked ribs made it almost impossible to breathe. Running was painful, breathing was painful, wielding his blades was painful. Even Curing himself every once in a while, every few battles, did very little. What he’d needed was a few more days of bed rest—at _least_. More like weeks, letting his head recover, his shoulders healing. He’d had none of that, of course, and he could see Basch glancing at him with unspoken worry.

He soldiered on despite that, and refused to raise his hand against his countrymen—and, in truth, was truly unable to without compromising himself, possibly for good. He would be able to fight once, perhaps, before he collapsed, and he held that close to his breast, for Vayne.

At last, after what was perhaps only half an hour but felt like _days_ , they came to the core of the structure. They had left a trail of blood and dead in their wake, and with the opportunity for something of calm that was a semblance of safety, they paused to catch their breaths at the top of a flight of stairs. As they breathed, ragged panting and pained grunts all around, the structure shuddered—a distant blast rocking the _Bahamut_ from base to tip.

Basch grabbed Ashe’s elbow, Vaan and Penelo held tightly to one another, Balthier bumped Fran who did not even rock at all, and Noah leaned hard against the wall. Even after the ship had stopped rocking, his stomach roiled and he had to duck his head slightly, breathing through his open mouth as he fought off a tremendous wave of nausea.

The ship rocked again with another blast, and half of him was glad—the Resistance was making progress, striking back against Vayne, and _succeeding_ —but the other half of him had a moment of awkward realisation as he lost his internal battle.

Noah turned as best he could and threw up on the grooved metal ground.

There was sweat, prickling at his hairline, cold and clammy. He felt ill. “Don’t even say it,” Gabranth growled to Basch, who he could feel standing just behind him. He straightened after a moment, wiped his mouth off on the leather of the wrist of his gloves, and turned to look at his brother. Basch’s mouth was a tight line, and he ignored it.

“The Resistance fights their battle well.” Fran said, hand pressed to the metal walls as she descended the steps before them, deeper into the ship.

“Aye,” Noah replied, taking a drink from his canteen, rinsing out his mouth and spitting it onto the ground. “At this rate, they might well compromise the tower.” Another drink, swallowed. Penelo came over, and he willingly let her cast Cura, the cool brush and tingle of the white magic soothing the throbbing in his head, settling his stomach. He could feel the ache in his shoulder quiet, and his breathing eased. None of it would save him in the long run, but for now, it was another hour, perhaps, another mile before the injuries made him nought but dead weight. “Thank you.”

“We dare not fail them now,” Fran continued, as if he had not spoken, fingers ruffling the fletchings of her arrows. “We dare not falter.”

“Stop worrying!” Vaan laughed, gesturing to all of the party as he turned around and continued down the stairs, backwards, showing off his near-perfect balance. Penelo skipped down to catch up to him, and Gabranth let her go, glad for the hand she had willingly lent. “We just have to clean up here, and then Ashe’ll be the Queen.” His comment made Ashelia blanch, Basch’s hand on her shoulder tightening.

“It’s kind of hard to believe,” Penelo said, dreamily. “I can’t even imagine trying to rule a whole kingdom.” And yet she was thick as thieves with Ashe, beloved and beloving of Larsa in a way that Gabranth, the failed dog of house Solidor, could only wish to be. She could never, did not ever, want to rule—and she surrounded herself by those who had nothing more or less than rulership in their bones.

“Well,” Basch squeezed Ashe’s shoulder and moved ahead of her to give her a moment to compose herself, “A Queen might always _run away_ with the help of a sky pirate, looking to raise his bounty a peg.” Balthier barked a laugh, shook his head.

“I doubt,” he looked to Ashe, whose mask had cracked into a bladelike smile, “That our Queen would need the help of any sky pirates.” Or, unspoken, that she would even want it.

“Do you really think me as strong as all that?” Ashe’s voice was full of laughter as she spoke, following the party and in step with Noah as they descended into the deeper bowels of the _Bahamut_ , into an area less for utility and more rife with Doctor Cid’s personal taste. Soaring open spaces, the awe of built power and the heavy, oppressive weight of metal all around them, caging them in.

Vaan paused, and looked up at his Queen, who looked back down at him. “Who said anything about strong?” His voice had lost its lighter lilt; he was quite serious. “You’ll make it.” As ever, her Dalmascans believed in her utterly and completely. As they had from the very beginning, before he had ever even properly met the woman. A faith, Gabranth was finally beginning to see, which was not ill-placed. Vaan looked around at all of them (even, Gabranth was surprised to see, at him, still off to the side, panting for breath, in the arms and armour of Judge Magister) and as a whole, nodded. Smiled. “You got good friends.”

And she did, of course. Gabranth, the Imperial Spymaster, Judge Magister and sworn sword and shield of House Solidor, who owed her a debt of life—his own, aye, and still her father’s ghost to appease. Larsa Ferrinas Solidor himself, who would rule Archades long past when Gabranth was dead and in the ground, and rule with a kind and honest hand for that. Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg, who would have willingly followed her into and out of the other side of death, and in the years to come once his name was cleared would lead Dalmasca’s armies to victory and peace. Balthier—of late Ffamran mied Bunansa—the most infamous sky pirate in Ivalice, the heir to Doctor Cid’s shattered reputation, with that heavy weight that cowed his shoulders and the thought to move forward and create a world where that would not be needed. Fran, of the lost forest, who had given up her family by blood and now had found another one, who was the voice of ages lost to remind Ashe that the precipice she stood upon was one shared by hundreds, by thousands.

And last, and perhaps greatest of all, Vaan and Penelo of Rabanastre, who had grown up with nothing at all but their wits and their kindness and their own gifts, who had become her steadfast believers, who would have done anything, gone anywhere for her. She had in them more than true subjects—she had in them true friends. That was something for which not even countries could be bargained, that spelled the difference between life and death.

Ashe’s eyes looked wet, and she hesitated for a moment before pulling Vaan into a tight hug, squeezing him around the shoulders. He looked stunned for a moment; Ashe was not a woman prone to either hysterics or overt displays of emotion. She knew her rank, knew her place, and stayed there.

“Thank you,” mumbled the Queen of Dalmasca, and when she pulled back, her mask was on once again, as if it had never faltered in the first place.

They drove on deeper, past another contingent of soldiers, in which someone charged Gabranth shouting at him as a traitor and he was forced to cut the man down as best he could without killing him, taking him around the knees and then striking him hard in the head with the flat of his blade, his helmet rattling loudly before they lay still. After that, there was nothing but the lift, and Vaan ran straight to the control box. And then paused.

“This,” he said, scratching his head, “Looks _nothing_ like the _Strahl._ ”

“Thats because its a lift and _not_ an airship,” Balthier drawled, as Gabranth pushed past him and sheathed his swords for a moment as he fixed the controls, Vaan carefully watching his movements. No doubt so he could learn to mimic them later. “Honestly Vaan, a napple isn’t a porange just because they’re both _fruits_.” Penelo snickered as Gabranth set their destination.

“Hold onto something,” he warned everyone. “Knowing Cid, this thing moves _very_ fast.” He watched most of them grab hold of the railings, steadying himself on the console, and pulled down the lever to activate the lift.

“Good _fuck!_ ” Basch yelped as it lifted off, fast as the _Strahl_ beneath their feet, straight up. For a moment, his brother overbalanced, and Gabranth barked out a laugh as Basch fell flat on his ass, looking dazed at their speed. Ashe held tight to one of the railings, looking a little green, and Vaan gasped in awe. Balthier stood perfectly straight; no doubt used to this from years of going anywhere and doing anything with his father, not wobbling through sheer force of will.

Like all Cid’s designs, it coasted to a perfectly gentle halt, so fine it probably would not have cast ripples in a glass of water. Basch blinked, and got to his feet, swaying a bit. He looked at his brother, and scowled at Noah’s grin.

“Quit it,” he snapped. Noah did no such thing.

 

 

“We should be almost at the command tower,” Noah said as they left the lift, running now as best he could, one hand pressed to the stitch in his still-healing side. The damage to the structure from outside was getting worse, and there was an unspoken urgency, now, in all of them. They had to finish this before the _Bahamut_ collapsed. “It should be just above us. There should be a second lift, one more grandiose, for personal use by Vayne and his command staff. That should be nearby, so keep on the lookout for it.”

“Got it,” Vaan replied, jogging ahead along one of the catwalks toward one of the many open spaces in the central tower, turning the corner to vault up the stairs—when he came to a dead halt.

Beside him, Ashe did the same. Then Penelo, Basch, Balthier, Fran, and Noah at last in the rear.

The reason was obvious: before them stood the brothers Solidor, Vayne and Larsa. Larsa, at least, looked unharmed—only wan. His complexion and the sick marks of worry under his eyes were not helped by the light. Vayne looked...awful, and beautiful, all at once. He stuck his chin out, pugnacious, and stared at those assembled before him, his arms crossed behind his back.

“Gabranth!” Larsa gasped, in visible relief, some of the tension clearing from his face instantly as he smiled. “You’re all right!” Vayne looked at Gabranth and sneered in disgust. He lifted one regal hand and pointed at the fallen Judge Magister.

“You,” he said, “We shall deal with soon enough.” Gabranth’s hands, in their leather gloves, creaked as he made fists. He grit his teeth. Gods, but what would he give to wipe that smug look off of Vayne’s face. “We must needs have words with your companions first.”

“He’s a stuck-up prick,” Basch whispered under his breath in Landiser, for Gabranth to hear, and he grunted back to his brother,

“You’re telling me.” Vayne always _had_ been his least favourite of the Solidors.

Vayne was ignoring them; he had high drama to play out and they were but pawns on his board. He spoke, instead, to his opposing Queen. “I bid you welcome to my sky fortress, the _Bahamut._ ” He bowed slightly to Ashe, which was only the bare minimum of a gesture he should show a fellow ruler, but then again, Vayne had always been condescending. “I must...apologise,” he settled on after a moment, “For my delay in welcoming you aboard my ship.” His genteel quality as he said it almost belied the fact that as they spoke, war raged outside the _Bahamut’s_ great, impenetrable walls. Like he wasn’t playing out a mummer’s farce as around them good men and women died in pursuit of his pointless, childish goals.

“I hated him when we were children, and I hate him now,” Balthier growled, and Noah’s mouth twitched for a moment in a smile. At least they were all united in this one thing—Vayne Carudas Solidor being an unrepentant asshole was something that, apparently, crossed national boundaries and personal divides without a moment of hesitation.

“Permit me to ask:” Vayne continued, like none of the rest of them were even there, “Who are you?”

Vaan choked so hard Penelo started slapping him on the back, and Fran barked a high peal of laughter. Gabranth blinked—and then it dawned on him, stunned, that Vayne had never _actually_ _met_ any of Ashelia’s travelling companions. Oh, Gabranth knew him all too well, and he had grown up with Balthier but a few years younger, but the rest of them? He had never even _seen_ Ashe in person, and knew Basch’s face through Noah’s, but Vaan, Penelo, and Fran would have been an absolute mystery to him. Gabranth just shook his head; it was a helplessly amateur mistake to go into a fight knowing little and less of your opponents, but. Vayne _had_ always been cocky.

“An angel of vengeance?” He looked at Ashe now, unhesitating. “Or perchance a saint of salvation?” He asked of Ashe the very same question Gabranth had; done in words rather than in deeds. He knew, now, that Vayne would find his hope for the first sorely lacking. Ashe was a better ruler without a throne than Vayne would have ever grown to be in all his life sitting atop an unearned one.

Ashe hesitated, her eyes downcast. She had never had to put it so starkly into words before, her actions at the Pharos previously had spoken far louder than would have any protestations. But, after a moment, she lifted her head to stare Vayne down as one would an equal. “I am simply myself. No more and no less. And I want...only to be free.” Vayne’s face creased with disgust writ plain upon his features, before he grinned openly.

Apparently, Ashe had decided wrong. Gabranth thought, perhaps not, but who was he to judge?

“Such a woman is not fit to bear the burden of rule. Weep for Dalmasca, for she is lost.” Next to him, Gabranth felt his brother shift, and he grabbed Basch’s arm in a white-knuckled grip to hold him steady, his other hand doing the same for Vaan, who also had Penelo holding him back. “Observe well, Larsa.” Vayne did not look at his brother as he spoke, too caught up in his own words. “Watch and mark you the suffering of one who must rule, yet lacks the power.”

Larsa did something then, something that Gabranth had prayed for all the years his Lord had grown up in his brother’s shadow. He did something so foolish, so brave, so brilliant, so _beautiful_ that he could only have come into on his own, no matter what bad, reckless habits he had picked up from Vaan, what lessons on leadership and freedom Gabranth and Drace had impressed upon him: he drew his sword, and pointed it directly at Vayne, his smooth jaw squared and his blue eyes as bright as fire despite the shaking in his hand.

“No,” Larsa said, and while his hand may have trembled, his voice was hard and sure as steel. Vayne blinked, and looked at his brother, momentarily speechless. “No, Brother. I will not.”

“Lord Larsa,” Noah whispered, his hand on his brother’s shoulder slipping,

Larsa took a deep breath, squared his chest. “Though I lack your power, I will still persist.” Unspoken— _as will Lady Ashe._ Gabranth thought that, at this point, Ashe would have persisted through hell and high water for Dalmasca. Larsa followed his words up by lifting his other hand to steady the shaking of his sword, until it pointed straight and true at Vayne. If Larsa had stepped forward, he would have speared his brother through his unprotected stomach and chest.

Vayne smiled indulgently. “Bold words, child.” The sheer infuriating absurdity in Vayne calling Larsa _child_ left Gabranth with an ill taste in his mouth. Like Larsa wasn’t a decade and a half again, _more_ , more mature than his brother. He spread his hands, and Larsa took that opportunity to edge around him, away from Archades and war and closer to Dalmasca and peace, until he once again stood side-by-side with Ashe, peace against war, leading them all into this final, last confrontation.

“Stay back, Judge Magister,” warned Larsa, steel in his voice. “I will have words with you yet.” Gabranth smiled.

“As you wish, my Lord.”

“Your lives are forfeit, and your insurgence with them.” Vayne continued, like his brother had not just deserted him and he did not stand utterly alone and friendless, ignoring everything that didn’t work into his master plan, “Dalmasca will again know order.”

“Resistance,” Ashe snapped back, automatically correcting the misuse of _insurgence_. It was almost sweet, her insistence on the term. Vayne ignored her.

“For good and all, I shall bring your futile attempts at rebellion to an end.”

The words spoken, Vayne drew his sword, as did Ashe, spinning the _Tournesol_ in her grip before she ran forward with a shout, taking the war to meet the warmonger, Basch and Vaan following behind her with Larsa in the rear. Penelo, Balthier, Fran, and Gabranth hung back for a moment. They let those who would see their Queen into the new era go with her forward, for peace and Dalmasca.

In Gabranth’s case, he hung back because he would put his sword through the man’s chest, or not at all. “What am I to do with those who would oppose me,” Vayne shouted, in all the midst of combat turmoil, as he struck ineffectually at Ashe’s shield, Basch battering him from the side, as his slim and nimble brother snuck past his defences, scoring a long hit on his side as Vayne cast magicks, “But show them death?”

“Get out of his way!” Larsa shouted, just in time, as he dragged Vaan out of the path of Vayne’s spell as it ripped apart the floor beneath them, the strength of the Mists making the metal look for a moment warped and twisted into a great, gaping maw beneath their feet. Basch threw himself into it the spell to protect Ashe, and took the hit with a shout of pain, was knocked back into his Queen, who barely caught him in time, stumbling under his weight. It had left a long bruise over his arm that had protected his face, his chest, and his leg, all of it bleeding sluggishly. Basch didn’t seem even bothered—he wiped the blood off of his face and struck back into combat again, albeit favouring the leg.

Vayne didn’t make a mistake until there was another great strike against the _Bahamut_ , the floor shaking beneath all of them. He had no-one to steady him, and stumbled, leaving his guard open. Larsa struck in, seeing opportunity’s too-short visit, disarming him, leaving him with but his fists. Vayne could not bring himself to attack his brother, and instead turned the brunt of his anger against Ashe, kicking and punching rapidly, the Queen yelping in pain as he struck her hard on the side, knocking her shield aside. Weakness for weakness.

But then he made his first, last, only—his greatest mistake. Even with her shield hanging awkwardly and her body bent to compensate for the probably cracked ribs in her side, Ashe straightened, her hair blowing around her face as her body glowed with Mist. She pressed her hand to her breast and whispered something Gabranth could not hear over the howl as the Mist in the air was pulled toward her until it was nearly a solid presence at her back, glowing like the lights of a thousand tiny stars.

And then she turned toward Vayne, and threw toward him all the Mist and magick she had, bolts of great static lightning striking forth. He shouted in surprise, and then moments later, as the first of her spell began to hit him, screamed in pain. Vayne was soon hidden from view by Ashe’s Quickening, the last thing Gabranth was able to clearly see the would-be Emperor’s hands over his head as he shrieked, blasted by explosions of Mist that drove him back and then down to one knee, unable to rise.

He froze there, as Ashe dropped her arms, panting for breath, her hair slicked to her face with sweat. Vayne did not move, his eyes strangely wide, and did not breathe. He did not, in fact, do anything at all.

And then, like the crumbling of his dead generation, the toppling of a great building (indeed, the very fall of the _Bahamut_ itself that was now all-but-promised) Vayne fell face-foreward onto the ground, his body as motionless as a plank of wood, and lay as still as a rictus-locked corpse.  In the ensuing silence, their breathing all seemed entirely too loud. Gabranth felt it twisting hot and ugly in his chest but could not bear to say it, like if he spoke the words he would break the spell and bring ruin to cave in upon their heads with the _Bahamut_ ’s crumbling ceiling— _this was too easy_. Fortunately, Balthier was there for him: “No way,” the pirate snarled, “He won’t go down this easily.”

“Lord Brother!” Larsa’s voice cracked as he shouted, and before Gabranth could rush forward, try to grab him, he had run toward Vayne’s collapsed figure. Vaan shouted his name, tried to do the same, but Larsa ducked his outstretched hand. Larsa was focused on his brother, either dying or dead, and as he reached Vayne’s body there was—

The static came from out of Vayne’s frozen corpse, bolts of refracted lightning, and they struck Larsa where he stood. He screamed in agony, body jerking with the force of the electricity, and then he with a feeling like his very death had come upon him in that moment, Gabranth watched as Larsa fell and lay as still and prone as did his brother, steaming slightly, boneless and limp. He jerked every few moments as the shock left his system, but did not move again on his own.

Gabranth felt sick. His heart had lodged in his throat, and it made it hard to breathe. He couldn’t see anything but Larsa, his Larsa, collapsed and motionless on the ground like a discarded toy. Barely breathing. He was shaking with rage, and in the absolute silence, Penelo gasped. It seemed horribly loud. Then, as they all watched, a strange, pulsing light overcame Vayne and Larsa, bathing the both of them in the red glow of Mist. And in that light, despite the blood that had seeped from the wounds that had been left on him, Vayne gasped. Shifted. Moved.

It was uncanny, and sickening. Every pulse of his heartbeat was _transforming_ his body as they watched in mute horror, first just little changes—like a strange bulking of his muscles—and then the hoarse screams as his face was ravaged, his body twisted into something _else_. “Like Bergan!” Fran snarled, her teeth bared and hackles raised, her ears flattened back. “He, too, has used the nethicite! It binds his bones!” The strange glow still surrounded Larsa, and Gabranth had the horrible, sickening realisation that with every push to make Vayne more powerful, he sucked the life from his brother.

“I’ll kill him” Noah snapped, but found Penelo pressing him back, her whole weight leaned against him as he tried to rush forward. “Penelo, let me go—“

“No!” She shoved back on his armour. “If you go now you’ll just get hurt like Larsa was!” He ignored her, though, completely focused on Larsa and Vayne’s shattered form, floating feet off the ground as he screamed in pain. “Noah—“

He finally shoved past her and staggered to Larsa’s side. Vayne—or whatever was controlling him—luckily paid little and less attention to him, and Gabranth knelt, bending over his charge, checking his pulse (faint, but that could just be through the barrier of the leather of his gloves) before he turned to roll him over, to help him sit up. Before he could do so, though, the remains of Vayne Solidor screamed again, and a blast of Mist as powerful as any they had dealt with in Giruvegan or the Pharos swept them all like a hurricane. Gabranth leaned forward, tucking his body around Larsa to protect the young man from the worst of it, even as he heard the party stumble behind him, unwilling to let his charge be left alone in this maelstrom.

And now, at last, as he looked up, he could see what the nethicite had done to Vayne. His muscles had grown and bulged until they had ripped through his clothes and armour, shredding cloth and metal alike to tatters and rags. His injuries from their earlier brawl had healed into pale, ragged twists of scar tissue. The veins stood out like rivers in his shoulders and neck, and he glowed with a pale inner light of Mist that pulsed, eerie, beneath his skin. He hung suspended in midair like a puppet that had had all its strings cut, haunting and uncanny and _strange_ like all the creatures touched by the hands of the Occuria, and the effect was so unsettling it left Noah once again nauseous.

“Manufacted nethicite,” the Queen snarled, her voice dripping with distaste. “Have they learned _nothing_?”

“It’s always worth it in the lust for power.” Balthier replied to Ashe, and when Gabranth glanced at him, saw his face was twisted in a rictus of pain and grief. Something had happened atop the Pharos, something which had _changed_ Balthier fundamentally; Gabranth did not know what. Like as not, he never _would_ know.

Vayne floated forward toward them and out of the rippling Mist that had suffused and filled the air like a soup-thick fog. Behind him trailed great swords of Mist, apparently attached to his body through the nethicite, and Gabranth found himself staring dumbfounded. “What,” he whispered, as Vayne finally raised his head, his blank eyes focusing only with difficulty. He raised his hands like he knew not what he was doing, and the blades spun to hang suspended behind him like some gross caricature of wings. Out of the corner of his eye, Gabranth could see Fran bent double, Balthier on one side and Penelo on the other, her head in her hands as he moaned in pain, ears flat against her skull, the Mist overpowering her in its pungency.

“Behold!” Vayne shouted it, his voice laced with something otherworldy and horrific, both his-and-not at the same time, the ghost of the man and the creatures controlling his body both speaking in tandem, “The power left to me by our fallen friend!”

_Cid._

Would the man _never_ die?

Vayne finally looked down as he seemed to come back to himself, some of the glassy blankness clearing from his eyes, and stared at where Gabranth still held his brother. He could feel the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle just above the collar of his armour at the ruin of the man’s face, the skin flayed off here and there to reveal the white of bone and the bloody ochre of muscle, his veins nigh glowing with Mist, the tendons standing out in cords against his skin. Vayne looked thirty years older, and more alike to a corpse than a living man, his eyes sunken and his lips shrivelled up against his hollow cheeks, revealing the pasty discolouration of his gums and his teeth nearly to the roots.

For a moment, Gabranth feared that was the end of him. That he would die, without ever striking back, cut down in-between breaths.

It was not the worst way to go.

Instead, Vayne looked away from him a moment later, bored of him as quickly as he’d gained the creature-that-had-been Vayne’s attention. “Gabranth, you will defend my brother. He will have much need in the hell to follow.” Gabranth stared at him, teeth grinding, and then ever-so-gently finished turning Larsa over. Carefully, he placed the boy out of the way, his hands folded upon his chest on the rim of the elevator they had made their final arena of this war, and struggled back to his feet.

It was not easy, with his still-healing wounds. It was not done without pain. It was humiliating, almost, to be rendered nearly as weak as an untrained and yet-callow youth without a hand to support him. But stand on his own he did, and Gabranth found himself facing Vayne head-on as a final wall between the shade of the Emperor and the Queen’s entourage as he drew his swords. Vayne stared at him with nothing but contempt, and Gabranth sneered back, fury alight in his bones. At least, with all the blinders off, their disgust was mutual.

He locked his swords together at the hilts, and pointed _Highway Star_ at Vayne, lining the blade up with the man’s heart. Nothing else needed to be said, not with him standing between Vayne and Larsa and his sword in hand. Call him many things, but Gabranth knew how and when to draw a line in the sand. “Yes,” Gabranth said, voice hard with cold fury, “I _will_ defend Lord Larsa!” From Vayne, and from all who would use him and abuse him and toss him aside like so much useless garbage, and from what Archades would do to him if given the chance (chew him up and spit him out like old cud), and from Gabranth himself, if he had to. He had always been Larsa’s greatest weakness.

“The Hound strays.” Vayne almost sounded surprised. As if he had not seen it coming. As if he had never suspected Gabranth’s devotion to Larsa to be greater than his love for any other, man and country alike.

“The Hound strayed long ago, Vayne,” Gabranth snapped back. “Or had you but forgotten Bur-Omisace?”

“The Empire is not me,” Vayne replied. “To betray one is not to betray the other. I had hoped you could still return to the fold and guard mine brother, for he will not accept it but from one such as you. We cannot abide that now. You have gone a step too far. Not even my brother’s ill-placed love for a coward cur will save you from your chosen fate.” _As if he he had ever wanted it to._ “Treason bears a price.”

“One I gladly pay.” Gabranth bared his teeth as he said it, and behind him, Balthier pulled and cocked his gun, Penelo her daggers, and in lieu of Fran, still struggling with the Mist, Basch once again spun the Zodiac Spear in hand, stepping forward to join shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother in one final stand, Landis against Archades, after all these years.

 

 

Vayne Solidor had learned the martial arts from the very best of tutors, from a very young age. One of those teachers had been Gabranth. Vayne had been still a boy of Larsa’s age when Gabranth had been made Judge, before he had even attained the rank of Magister—Drace had been the newest Magister, then, and he had served under her still, yet a green youth from Landis. She had tasked him to train Vayne in the Landiser ways of the sword, to pass on the art and to give him a leg-up against his brothers, and he had done so. Those long-ago days in the sand of the salle, Gabranth panting through the unfamiliar helm of his armour as he parried strike after strike from Vayne, seemed as distant to the then and now as did the far-off silhouette of the moon. No longer was it good-natured corrections of the Imperial scion, praising him for a well-timed thrust or a quick riposte. Now, it was pure steel against flesh and the bloody rasps of the heat of battle, and he would not encourage Vayne into anything but death.

Vayne accepted their coming practically with open arms, Gabranth taking point with Basch and Balthier and Penelo behind them. Penelo was already casting magicks, and Balthier was finishing loading his gun. As he floated above them, Vayne began to speak, his voice oddly echoey and inhuman in tone. “Ivalice will known a new Dynast-King, and Man will keep his own history! The tyranny of the gods is ended! We are their puppets no more!”

There was a resounding shot as Vayne opened his mouth to continue speaking, and he was knocked almost out of the air by the bullet from Balthier’s gun that lodged in his chest. Balthier cocked it, and fired again, this time knocking Vayne properly to the ground. He scowled.

“I am so fucking tired of bullshit monologues,” Balthier snapped. Gabranth snorted under his breath, and took advantage of Vayne’s surprise and confusion to run forward, making himself into the wall behind which his companions could hide. He wasn’t able to do much but make himself a target—Vayne wasn’t fighting them with steel and iron, and there was no real way to parry the Mist-blades that Vayne commanded, but he could still take the man’s physical strikes, and he did so, eating them with the plate of his armour where it was repaired, and blocking it with his blades where it was not. The force of each of those strikes left his arms feeling numb for moments afterward, and he tired far faster than he would have liked to admit, his earlier injuries slowing him down dangerously.

Not that it was easy, because no matter what they did, Vayne seemed not to notice it. Basch _put his spear_ through the man’s chest, crushing his sternum in with force loud enough for an audible crunch, but he didn’t even seem bothered. Even when Balthier summoned Famfrit, holding Vayne’s attention long enough for Penelo to heal another round of cracked ribs, he was still apparently unfazed, no matter the sweat gleaming on his inhuman muscles and ragged, broken breaths coming from his open mouth, bleeding blood and Mist in equal measure from every injury.

When he began to glow, Gabranth barked, “Get back!” to the other three, and threw himself forward and on top of Larsa’s still prone form. All he was able to feel was the vibration of the trembling platform upon which they stood and Vayne’s voice barking,

“All who oppose me shall perish!”

The resulting blasts of lightning and Mist cleaved yet-more holes into the ruined metal of the platform, carving it up into jagged strips. One of them struck Gabranth’s back and he had to hold himself up on locked elbows above Larsa’s prone form, bottling up a scream of pain behind his teeth as his body threatened to collapse. He almost blacked out for a moment before it was over and he stumbled back to his feet, his armour shattered along his spine, his cape ruined and smouldering slightly.

“The blades!” Fran screamed, her voice cracking. She had, it seemed, at last managed to find her way out of her Mist-haze. “You must destroy his blades!”

They did so, as she had instructed. Every strike Gabranth landed he could feel tearing at the injury to his back—it hadn’t pierced him through, but there was a long, yawning gash that ran from the nape of his neck to his lumbar, and it bled sluggishly even when Penelo flung healing magic his way. Even with a potion, it only felt vaguely scabbed, the damage exacerbated by the nethicite and consequently resistant to magicks as such. But there was no time to stop fighting, no time even to step back and allow someone else to take over—

No, every moment was a struggle, and one Gabranth refused to bow before.

There was another attack, from the Mist, when they had destroyed almost all of Vayne’s swords. He summoned those remaining to them and they, at his incantation, combined together into a single brilliant blade of light. Gabranth practically threw himself toward Vayne, shoving his brother back, and brought up both his blades to bear against the strike.

He could not block the Mist, that was as unstoppable as the air. He _could_ stop the actual physical blade, and he did so, catching it on his upraised hands. His injured shoulder buckled immediately, and Gabranth locked his other elbow to keep it off. The Mist itself sliced deep and deeper into his injured shoulder, and he did shout in pain this time, ducking his head and biting the inside of his lip until it bled. He wouldn’t lose the arm—he didn’t think—but after it was done his right arm hung limp at his side, and Penelo yelped in anguish when she saw it as he stumbled, using his sword to regain his balance.

Penelo took the moment to strike, and her scatterburst blindingly powerful Firaja threw Vayne out of the air. He hit the ground hard, knees almost buckling, and a follow-up shot from Balthier, adding two more bullets to those already embedded in his chest, did the rest of it. This time, he _stayed_ down. He clutched his broken sternum with one hand as he stumbled, staring at them all in seething, white-lipped rage. “You would ruin yourself for this hapless Princess?” Vayne spat, and Gabranth spun his swords, throwing blood off of them.

“Queen,” he corrected. “And not for her, Vayne.” For Larsa, still unconscious. For Larsa, and for Landis’ assimilated people who still yearned in silence under the Imperial yoke, and for Zecht who had died himself both two years prior and for the final time at the Pharos doing Noah still knew not-what. For the father Balthier still mourned, who Vayne and Fate both alike had stolen from him years prior, and for Dalmasca who yet strained and struggled at her bonds, _so close_ to freedom. For Gramis, poisoned by a snake (the senate, his dead sons, Vayne, his own hubris, _Noah_ ), by Drace who had died holding his eyes so he’d remember her face, one last innocent blood sacrifice. For the childhoods Penelo and Vaan and all of Rabanastre had lost, sacrificed to the gods of war and death. For Basch, whose name would go down in history stained with blood should they not all live to reclaim it. For Vossler, who had betrayed the trust of his truest comrades for a single hope of salvation. For Ghis and Bergan, who had never deserved anything at all, but had deserved _better_ than what Vayne had seen them turned to.

For Rasler.

For Raminas.

For Reks.

Gabranth could not lift both his swords together with his remaining good arm; it could not take the weight. He had to disengage them, and the clatter that the _Chaos Blade_ made when it hit the ground was shockingly loud in the jagged silence, pierced by own their ragged breaths. Left with only the _Highway Star_ , he stumbled three steps, tilted abruptly, and then regained his balance, teeth-grit and white-knuckled in the force of it. His breathing was irregular. But none of that mattered, not when Vayne was before him, stumbling as much as he was. Not when he had _hurt Larsa_ , not when behind him were the few men and women who could see Ivalice to peace. Who had to. Who must.

Gabranth shouted as he ran forward, more to give himself strength with a battle cry than anything else. He gathered up the magicks that he had been holding onto the whole battle, those few remaining shreds that he had not lost to his fatigue and injury, and cast Mist around his sword like a webbing of light and fire. _Innocence_ , Drace had named the attack, years before, when he had first perfected the art of Quickenings. She had thought it funny in that strange and morbid way of hers; he had found it ill-humoured. He swung overhand on the strike, to compensate for his injured shoulder, and the brilliant Mist of his blade cut straight through Vayne’s chest like a hot knife through butter, his bones snapping like twigs underfoot. Gabranth bore down, even as he saw spots at the pain, cutting deeper. The blade sunk further, past Vayne’s chest and into his stomach, then down to his navel. Further.

Noah was screaming. Vayne was screaming, and Vayne’s hands were glowing with his own Quickening, and with the _Highway Star_ stuck up to the hilt in the other man’s chest, Gabranth had nowhere to go to dodge, not as slow and belaboured as he already was—the other man’s magick struck him across the left side of his face, and he barely dodged being beheaded, yelping in surprise at the whitehot burst and cauterising heat.

Had Gabranth still had his long-since-lost helmet perhaps he would have kept the eye, but there was nothing doing now. It could have saved them all a lot of trouble if Bergan hadn’t ruined it at Bur-Omisace. Vayne’s strike smashed in the left side of his cheekbone like crumpled tissue and gouged his eye to pulp and liquid in its socket, leaving a long gash that bisected the left side of his face from halfway through his eyebrow to his ear.

A mirror.

A twin.

This time, the humour of it was not lost on him.

Still, he did not let go of his sword, and he stared at Vayne in contempt, leaning all his weight forward into his wrist to push it deeper into the man, to finish cutting him in twain. “Even a stray has pride!” He panted, and Vayne shrieked in rage and with his remaining arm struck Gabranth across the chest hard enough to shatter his breastplate into shards and splinters. The force of it, empowered by nethicite and Mist, sent him flying like a ragdoll arse over teakettle through the air, the _Higway Star_ wrenched from his grasp, and with it dislocating his other shoulder.

The pain was absolutely brilliant. It filled every inch of his body like white heat, from where the breastplate of his armour had been caved the rest of the way in, piercing the muscle and flesh of his chest, to the dead weight of his right arm, to the sharp curve of pain over his left rotator cuff, to the dull and odd ache that was his now-missing eye and the blind left half of his vision. His stomach, he could feel, was bleeding, shrapnel turned to gut wounds, and his left wrist was almost certainly broken.

Noah hit the ground, and the high noise of pain he made when he landed was bit off by the second one, more a shriek, when he bounced. He saw stars and black spots, felt violently ill again, nauseous and near to fainting, but could not move. Could not do anything at all. Both his arms now hung all-but-useless at his sides, and half of his vision was blood and blackness.

He could, out of his good eye, see as Basch ran over and knelt by his side, hands already glowing with the white light of his meagre magicks, as he began to cast Cura. Gabranth barked a laugh, blood and spittle alike frothing on his lips, as Basch lifted his head slightly, Noah’s blood slicking his hands much alike to how their hands had looked two years prior, but this time the blood was Noah's, not the hands.

Gabranth had been in war long enough to know, even without any truly trained skill as a healer, when an injury was one that could be overcome through magick and potions alike. He’d been blooded at only fifteen fighting the Empire in Landis, and stained his conscience much and more since. He had killed enough, seen enough death. He knew palliative care when he saw it.

There was nothing his brother—or anyone else—could do for him now.

“Here,” he gasped, smiling, “I pay my debt.”

“Burn in hell!” Vayne screamed, still cleaved nearly in twain and yet living despite it, a testament to the monster he had made himself, “Gabranth!”

With his remaining eye, Gabranth could see another set of those swords summoned forth from the frothing Mist above them, and he tried to shove at Basch with his hand, to get out of the way, to let Gabranth die without taking the better twin with him, but found he was too weak to lift either of his hands more than to bat at Basch’s grasp. “Go,” he whispered, as the blades came careening toward them. “Basch—“

And then, scrambling to his feet, sprinting across the platform and skidding to a halt, his hand upraised and glowing with faint blue light, was _Larsa_. One by one, the swords vanished, disappearing into his upraised palm in streaks of Mist and light, until there were no more.

 _The nethicite._ Of course.

It shattered, with a quiet whisper not unlike the tinkle of breaking glass. Larsa did not look back, but stared forward unflinching at the shambling corpse that was the remains of his brother. He was unmoved, and strong, now, stronger than any fire or flames could have made him.

Gabranth loved him, utterly. Beyond words.

Vaan shouted, distantly, and Basch had lifted his head far enough that Gabranth was able to see as the boy scrambled forward, snagged the _Highway Star_ from where it had been tossed to the ground when he’d been sent flying, and ran forward to finish the job—his strike sent Vayne flying over the edge of the platform in a gush of blood and viscera, and the sound from him hitting the stairs was a loud, wet slap in the silence.

Vaan vaulted over the railing to follow him, and Gabranth fell back into Basch’s arms, unable to support the weight of his own head any longer. Whatever happened now was out of his hands; he could do no more good or ill for anyone, especially for himself. He would, like as not, not survive even long enough to know Vayne really was dead and Dalmasca restored. The rest of the Queen’s party followed Vaan, glancing back at where Gabranth lay prone and broken, except for Basch. He stayed doggedly by Gabranth’s side as Larsa slowly lowered his hand, his posture sagging, his strength sapped.

Larsa was more badly injured, in soul as well as in body, than he had let on in his heroic actions, and Noah _ached_ to be beside him. Larsa sobbed in pain as he fell forward and dropped heavy to his knees, his head hung low between his shoulders, his arms limp at his sides.

He had, Gabranth knew, made sure that at the end of this, his brother would die.

To kill a brother was a heavy burden. One that had made Vayne and Noah both into monsters.

He watched as Penelo rushed to Larsa’s side, kneeling beside him, checking him for injury, and closed his remaining eye, smiling slightly to see he had still by his side those who cared for him above all else. “Basch,” he whispered, his brother grunting to acknowledge he had heard, “Tell me. He is...a good master?” Every breath hurt something terrible, an awful low ache that pierced through him from both the front and from behind.

“Aye.” Basch replied, his voice distant, not looking at him. As if he could not bear it. Could not bear to see what his own face would look like in death. Gabranth sighed, in pain and exhaustion, and felt his brother slowly lower him to the ground. He could not blame Basch.

He went to his Queen, as he always must, as Noah would have done in his shoes, and Noah could not fault him as he stood and walked away after her.

Penelo’s footsteps followed him, and Noah and Larsa were left alone.

 

 

For some minutes, he lay and focused only on the near-impossibility of his continued breathing, forcing his lungs to press on through each inhale and exhale, his body one large hurt made up of a great many smaller ones. The _Bahamut_ rocked around and under them, but the rest of the world, the war, the thrones, had ceased to be Noah’s problem. He was going to die today, and it was the height of foolishness to cling to something that he would be as unable to effect as he was the weather.

After a time, Larsa’s quiet body shifted, and he rose, limped to Gabranth’s side, and fell back boneless to his knees. He did not object as the young Lord lifted his head and rested it in his lap—indeed, he sighed in happiness, and opened his remaining eye. Larsa sat above him, staring down at him, his pale face pensive, and soon pulled a handkerchief from a pocket. He began to wipe the blood and remains of his eye off of Noah’s face before it could have time to cake on and dry.

“I,” Larsa said, his face impassive, his voice a hoarse whisper, “Am very cross with you.”

Noah smiled. Foolishly.

“Your behaviour at the Pharos was deplorable.”

“I know.” His breath rattled as he spoke; each word was an effort akin to lifting up the world upon his shoulders. “I have made my obeisance to the Lady Ashe. And my brother, as well. No doubt they shall tell you of it, later.” Larsa nodded.

“You will have time aplenty to apologise to me properly in turn as well after this war is over.” Neither of them said anything about the fact that Gabranth would not live to see the war over, refused to acknowledge his fatal wounds. Larsa had seemingly decided to let this slide. Like if he ignored it, Gabranth would still be whole. “I did not expect you to come here,” the boy admitted after a time, hand stilling on Noah’s brow as he pressed the handkerchief down to stem the bleeding on the cut some. It was pointless; the loss of an eye and a shattered cheekbone would not be what killed Noah. That would be the gut wound, the near-severed arm, the better part of his ribcage being crushed, and whatever Vayne had done to his spine. The simple blood loss alone would kill him before too much longer. He could already feel himself losing consciousness. “I had worried that you might not even wake.”

“Just a concussion,” Noah lied, trying to spare the boy, knowing that it did not matter as he was dead anyway. “I could not so willingly sit impotent and not come to your aid. I swore an oath.” Two, actually. To Archades and to Drace, one signed in legality and blood and one a promise to his mentor and his friend, that he was even less likely to break than the former. Larsa nodded.

In the silence, they could hear the screams outside. They were inhuman.

They both knew it was Vayne.

Larsa closed his eyes, and Noah let out a long, slow breath. “Excellency,” he began, wearily, and Larsa shook his head.

“I am not Emperor yet, Gabranth. The Senate chooses who may wear that title, and they have yet to elect me. I am not my brother to force the hand of the mighty; our legal codes exist for a purpose, one far greater than I.”

“Noah,” Noah corrected him. “I am no more Judge Magister,” he whispered. Larsa took in a shuddering breath, bit his full lower lip. “I wish to die as myself.” Larsa opened his eyes then, and all trace of the untried young man was gone like the last breath of winter before the onslaught of spring, his blue eyes as hard and cold as well-forged steel.

Larsa leaned forward, doubled over his last remaining loyal retainer collapsed near-insensible in his lap, grabbed the clasps that hooked on Noah’s cape, and kissed him. Hard. On the mouth. Hard enough Noah could feel his lips bruising. Larsa pulled back only after a long moment, tears bright on his thick eyelashes, although they did not spill. More through sheer force of will than by gravity, Noah was sure. “If you die,” Larsa promised, his first oath as yet-uncrowned Emperor of Archades, “I will be _furious_ , I will accept no apologies, and I shall personally kill you again for disobeying my orders.”

Noah opened his mouth, and hesitated when no words came to him. Closed his good eye. Closed his mouth. Took in a shaking breath that left him hissing in pain at the pressure it put on his broken ribs. Tried to think of something to say—found himself woefully unable to come up with anything at all. There was not much he could to in the face of that. Even an apology would be ill-suited. His lips tingled, and his heart leapt in his throat. He looked back up at Larsa again, and saw his sovereign glaring down at him with all the fury that a twelve-year-old could muster, and found himself smiling, and then laughing. It was helpless, and it _hurt_ , both his emotions and the shattered remains of his body.

Larsa had kissed him. Larsa had kissed _him._ Larsa, as Ivalice teetered on the brink of self-destruction, Larsa Solidor had kissed him. While Noah lay dying, and Vayne was killed, and Larsa became Emperor of Archades, Larsa Ferrinas Solidor had _kissed him_.

“You’re acting a fool,” Larsa commented, uncharitably, and Noah shook his head as best he could. He couldn’t come up with anything to say at all. There were no promises he could make, no apologies. He had been given a gift far greater than any he could ever have deserved.

“If I die,” he settled on, “At least I die with that.”

So Larsa did it again.

 

 

Afterward, what few memories Noah retained of exiting the _Bahamut_ were of darkness and pain, and he was glad for it that he had been unconscious for most of the trip. He had fainted soundlessly when Basch and Fran had managed to get him upright and out of Larsa’s lap, and the better for it, too. The one time he was clearly conscious he had looked down at his chest and felt the better part of his own guts spilling out inside his armour, and been hysterical for all of about half a minute, unable to do anything except scream in pain, before he fainted again.

At least leaving the Pharos he had been completely unconscious, head knocked in by Cid. He couldn’t exacerbate his injuries at all like that. At the time, he’d been so incoherent that he’d not even been lucid enough to string two thoughts together about how much pain he was in, and he’d forgotten almost all of it later, amnesia from his cracked skull mercifully making it so that Noah had no memories of anything but puking on Basch’s lap. Now, when he did finally surface, he was, unfortunately, forced to remember the fact that he was one ill-timed jolt away from death via disembowelment before he ever even had the chance to bleed out.

“I’m dying,” Noah pointed out to nobody in particular, mostly just stating facts so that they were all on the same page.

“Shut up,” said his brother. Extremely unkindly.

Noah dropped his head back to the pillows of the camp bed in the _Strahl_ , and closed his eyes. He didn’t even have the energy to throw up on Basch’s shorts again; the strain would have probably done him in. “You most certainly are not,” Larsa snarled in refutal, and he drank the potions the young man poured into his half-open mouth without complaint, even though he knew they were likely ultimately useless. They had formed a little tableaux—the _Strahl_ was incredibly crowded with all eight of their party aboard, and currently, the better half of their companions had crammed into the tiny bulkhead, craning over Noah’s deathbed. His whole body tingled with white magick cast from half a dozen different sources.

“Well?” Balthier barked, from the front of the cockpit, his sharp voice carrying over the cluster of bodies and the cacophony of the battle that still raged in the skies above Rabanastre. Fran said something that he wasn’t able to catch, but he did hear Balthier’s reply of, “Damn!” The cockpit clattered, and Vaan jerked around in surprise as Balthier said his name, shoving around the edge of the bulkhead walls, the magick that Vaan had been casting onto Noah cutting off as he lost his focus. “I’m checking the engine room,” Balthier added as he shoved his way through the cluster of bodies in the hall, Fran following after him, her arms raised above her head to avoid elbowing anyone in the head. Both of them threw their own Curas onto those already tethered to Noah, another trickle into a sea.

He felt oddly light, tingly all over, and buoyed up on a current that kept snatching him away from the grasping jaws of death. Even with his breath ragged and blood foaming in his throat and lungs, Larsa was holding him clawed white-knuckled to life both with the force of oaths as well as magic and potions. He would not let Noah go quietly into that good night, even though he must needs eventually succumb.

There was a blast outside, knocking the _Strahl_ , and Ashe wobbled worriedly before she put a hand on Basch’s shoulder to steady herself, her magick cutting off as well as Penelo’s as they all hurried to the front of the cabin, focused on the war rather than the hopeless waste of time and energy that was trying to keep Noah alive for another breath more. “Look!” The Queen cried. “ _Bahamut’s_ glossair rings are stopping!”

Noah, even in his state, was able to make the connection between the terror in her voice and the fate that faced them. They were hovering right over— “Rabanastre,” he gasped, voice cracking with the effort it took to speak.

“Vaan,” Balthier swung back around from where he was halfway down the ladder in the back of the cabin, pointed at the boy in the cockpit. “As soon as the _Bahamut’s_ rings move, you take off. Understood?” He hesitated, and then added, “You _can_ fly her, Vaan. Just do it like I told you to.” Whatever quiet response he made, and the following bits of conversation, were impossible for Gabranth to follow as Larsa began mixing up what appeared to be a new pile of remedies, the first of which he delivered by shoving it whole into Gabranth’s open mouth. No doubt to stave off the infection, should he survive.

__

He would not survive. Noah had seen enough dead and dying men to know when he himself was one. Ie was all a futile effort, but he could say nothing. Even as Basch unbuckled his ruined breastplate and then sliced open the leathers beneath it, revealing the ruin of Noah’s torso so that Larsa could unhesitatingly place two more remedies there.

__

Noah could not bear to look, but he knew from the horrible, blanched look on Larsa’s face that whatever he saw, it was as bad as he had felt, and he caught, desperately, at Basch’s wrist. He could not lift his arm far enough up off of the bed to grab his hand. “Basch,” Noah said, and his brother jerked out of casting as if in a stupor, shaking his head as he stared at his brother. “Basch,” he whispered again. “Look after Larsa, will you?”

__

“No!” Larsa looked up at him. The tears, for Noah, or death truer than any other Noah was asking for from his brother, or both, had finally spilled over his eyelashes, and were cutting bright tracks down through the soot and blood on his face. “I shall have you, or none at all!” Noah spared him a too-gentle smile.

__

He could not make that decision for either one of them. It was out of all of their hands, now.

__

“If House Solidor should crumble,” Noah continued in a rasp, choosing his words with as much care as he could to spare the boy some further pain, “The Empire would fail, and civil war would take us all.” It was growing harder to speak; his tongue felt as lead. It would have all done nothing, been for naught, if Larsa would be crushed by Archades the moment he showed an inch of weakness.

__

Basch caught up Noah’s hand in his, and leaned further over him. His face was unreadable, but there was something of fury (at Noah, at this, at Vayne, at their tangled and lost fates) in his eyes. “I understand.” It was simply said.

__

Noah looked to Larsa, crying. He was beautiful. He was beyond anything Noah could have ever hoped to attain, too good for him in this life or any other—and as Larsa clasped his hand in both of his, blood smearing onto his gloves and sleeves, Noah was glad that at least he was dying here, in his arms. “Lord Larsa,” he whispered, “is our last hope.”

__

The _Strahl_ began to move; they had taken off. They would not, at least, go down with the _Bahamut_. It was a consolation to him, to know that those few who could bring a lasting peace would live through the end of this. He shuddered, and then, with the last of his strength, gasped to Basch,

__

“Give me the comm.” Basch seemed startled. Noah felt giddily lucid, perhaps some last hallucinated grasp at his fading life as he was bleeding out, and Basch hesitated. “Quickly,” he added, making the best of the last of his strength, and Basch stumbled to meet the Queen, who handed him the comm, and he handed it to Noah. Larsa was still casting, and Ashelia joined him as well, their magick giving him a few moments more of clarity.

__

“This is Judge Magister Gabranth.” Noah said it into the comm, barely thinking. He was sluggish and dying; each word was as great a struggle as had been this entire war. He cleared his throat, tried to make himself sound commanding, rather than a battered corpse of a man choking on his own blood. “All quarters cease fire!” Even if Zargabaath was alive, Noah was his senior—without Vayne to helm the beast of Archades, he was the last bastion that could turn the tide of war. He was the highest ranking member of the Imperial military. They would cede to his authority. “I repeat: all units of the Archadian army, hold your fire!” He looked up, hopefully, at Larsa, who was staring out the cockpit.

__

“They seem to hold,” Larsa whispered, to tell Noah what he himself could not see, and rather his words were in truth or in hope, he did not know.

__

“The battle is over,” Gabranth whispered, his hands shaking with the effort it was taxing from him to continue this charade. “As of this moment, we have signed a cease-fire with Ashelia B’nargin Dalmasca—” he looked to Larsa, who nodded, a smile touching his lips, an unspoken approval, and then Noah looked to Ashe, who was casting Curaga over his dying body, regal in her feisty repose.

__

It would be the first, and last, time that he said it properly.

__

“Her Royal Majesty.”

__

Very slowly, trusting it as a crown, he handed the comm to Larsa, who was still crying. He wiped his face, and took it. He had no more energy to speak; he was losing consciousness rapidly. Instead, Noah just smiled. Larsa smiled back, even if it was shaky.

__

He stood, gathering the trappings of Emperor about him. “Attention: this is Larsa Ferrinas Solidor.” He spoke, and his voice did not waver. Emperor of Archades, heir to the Empire, beautiful and terrible and too-young and precious beyond worth. “My brother Vayne has died with honour in battle. The Imperial Fleet is now under my command!” And so it was, and what impossible things he would do with it, Noah would not live to see. They would be wonderful, he knew it with surety.

__

He had heard enough. He knew, now, that the mantle Larsa had inherited fit as if tailor-made.

__

Noah closed his eyes, and slipped into the blissful, endless anonymity of the darkness that awaited him there, his hand still clasped in Larsa’s, that single anchor of warmth the last thing he felt as he slipped, down, and away.

__

 

__

 

__

The first thing Noah saw when he opened his eye was Lord Larsa. He looked very tired and worn beyond his years, his blue eyes set above the softening hollows of his lower eyelids that was tell-tale of lack of sleep. His lips were pinched and his skin pasty with exhaustion. “No,” Noah whispered, stunned and anguished, as he tried to reach for Larsa and found his hands as heavy as lead. “You can’t. Larsa—“ he was crying. “You. I failed you. I let you _die._ ” He was crying. Larsa was dead, and Drace would have his head.

__

“Rest,” Larsa whispered, leaning over him. “Please, Noah.”

__

He had no memory of anything after that, hysterical and terrified and screaming that he had failed, Larsa was dead, and he had failed, until darkness took him again.

__

 

__

 

__

_He will keep the arm_ , said someone in the darkness. _He may never swing a sword with it again, but he’ll keep it_. Noah had always wondered if you would be in death with all your hurts from life, and he found the prospect of being crippled in death not one that particularly bothered him.

__

 

__

 

__

There was fire, and blood, and darkness. His stomach hurt, like it had been torn out of him, and he kept looking down and seeing his intestines looking back at him. Every time he woke he couldn’t cling to anything. Death wasn’t supposed to _hurt_ , was it?

__

 

__

 

__

It smelled, distantly, of antiseptic and the cloying scent of deathbed incense meant to keep off the stench of putrefaction as to not nauseate the living. It did not, though, smell of putrefaction under that, though. Noah was in agony, but at least agony was better than hysterics, was better than death.

__

He was breathing. He could feel both hands, both feet. His entire torso hurt like hellfire, but it seemed to be in one piece. _He_ seemed to be in one piece.

__

After a long time, he opened his eye, and turned his head slightly.

__

The world spun about his head like a top, and Noah knew before he did it that he was going to vomit. He managed to swing slightly over the side of the bed he was on and aimed it at the floor, which was a sight better than the last few times it had happened.

__

Even just the effort of vomiting was almost too much for him, and after he’d done it Noah fell back, boneless, his head throbbing at his temples, behind his left eyesocket. “Ugh,” he managed, and heard footsteps racing in.

__

He cracked his good eye and glanced up to see that it was his brother he had heard. Basch, not in the rag-tag clothes he had seen him wear so often recently, but back in ceremonial Dalmascan armour. Basch hesitated, and then came over, kneeling on a spot of clean floor, leaning over Noah on the bed. “Noah?” He asked, hesitant, afraid of what his brother might say.

__

For a long moment he sat there, trying to form words, and finally, Noah settled on wetting his lips and murmuring in Landiser, “I feel like shit.” Basch stared at him, and then cracked a smile and began to laugh, his head thrown back. His hair, Noah noticed, had grown longer. Long enough that it was tied back in a thong.

__

“That’s the first lucid thing you’ve said in two months,” Basch replied, and Noah closed his eyes, groaned.

__

_Two_ _months_.

__

“Fuck.”

__

 

__

 

__

When he woke the next time, his head was clearer, and it was daylight out. He was in the same rooms as before, but this time, he was not alone. Larsa was there, and the young man practically shot out of the chair at Noah’s bedside, took one hand in both of his. “You’re awake!” Larsa was grinning near ear-to-ear, his rosy cheeks flushed with pleasure despite the still-tired grey tinge to his skin. “Basch told me you had woken in the night three days ago, I am sorry to have missed it. I hoped, if I stayed at your side, I might be able to catch you this time.” He paused, hesitated, and leaned closer, his dark hair like ink spilled upon his pale forehead. “How are you feeling?”

__

“Terrible.” He was too exhausted to sugarcoat anything. Larsa smiled despite it.

__

“Better terrible than dead. For quite a while nobody thought you would pull through. I am glad that you have recovered despite it.” Noah privately thought he was a very, very long way from _recovered_ , but he was alive.

__

“I had the most terrible dream,” he whispered, wincing in pain as he turned his hand over in Larsa’s grip, curling his fingers around the boy’s palm in return. His grip was weak; his fingers trembled with the effort and he found a strange buzzing in his muscles after the motion. His shoulder felt strange; like there was something missing from the structure he was used to there. He couldn’t feel his right hand quite as he once had, and it was a disconcerting thing to realise. “That you had died.” Larsa’s smile fell slightly.

__

“That was the first thing you said,” he replied, sombre. “You saw me when you awoke and thought I had died. They kept you drugged, after that. The healers were quite afraid that you would hurt yourself further in your stupor.” Probably for the best, Noah thought, given his injuries. “Do you remember anything else?”

__

“Very little,” he admitted. “I am glad to see that...you are well.” Larsa smiled again.

__

“I am very well, with all things considered. The better now that I can see you awake again. It has not been the same, without you at my side. When you recover, I will be very glad for it.” Larsa settled further onto the edge of the bed, holding Noah’s hand tightly, as if afraid that he would slip away again. “If...” he hesitated. “If you should. Wish to return to my service, that is. I would understand, if you did not want to.” He stumbled, then, his years of training and composure falling apart like old cloth into the fear and worry of a young man who was, at heart, still a frightened and worn child. “These past few years have placed you in impossible situations, I know, and with my brother’s death, well...someplace could be arranged, if you wished to retire from Archadia’s service—“

__

“Larsa,” Noah interrupted, his throat dry, squeezing the young man’s hand, “How bad is it?” He knew that this was not about what he had done, his crimes, or Vayne’s death—it was about the fact that he was but a shell of a man now at best.

__

The young man looked startled that he had cut so deftly to the quick.

__

“Tell me, my Lord. I shall not flinch.”

__

“Your eye is lost, but you know that.” He had known that the moment it happened. “Your cheekbone will heal mostly straight, though. You will keep your right arm, but the healers do not think you will ever have the strength to wield a sword with it again. Perhaps...not even the strength to lift it. The rest, they think you will recover from completely, albeit over many years. Although they did say that your missing memories like as not are gone forever.” Noah snorted. He doubted that he would want to remember much of what he had forgotten of the fraught hours and days after his injuries. What he did remember from after the Pharos was bad enough, he had no need of more.

__

There was no hesitation. “Then I shall remain by your side, my Lord.” Noah weakly squeezed Larsa’s hand again. “If you have want for a crippled Magister, even if I can do nothing but stand beside you, there is nowhere I would rather wish to be.”

__

“I always have want for you.” Larsa was fierce as he said it. “I have not yet relieved you of your service, Gabranth, and I do not intend to. I would have my reservations even should you beg me for it.”

__

“Then Judge Magister I am.” Noah breathed in, felt the pull of the still-healing stitches in his stomach and chest. Smiled. “Even in disgrace.”

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a sequel to this, that isn't written yet. lord knows ill probably write the whole thing in one caffeine and procrastination-addled binge after the hd edition drops in july. in the meantime, this is where this insane adventure and a year and change of my life comes to an end.
> 
> resources used in compiling this fic include: the official bradygames strategy guide, for maps, boss strats, skills and skill names, and monster images and names and descriptions.
> 
> [this complete walkthrough](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DSc-Cp58izE&list=PL35690EC86561A240) and [this full video of all cutscenes](https://youtu.be/xq7iLLFlerg) were the two walkthroughs i referenced for dialogue, transcription, and event order. 
> 
> [martin's ffwa script](http://www.ffwa.eu/ff12/script.php?page=main) as well as my own transcription was used for the copious in-game dialogue. i also made extensive use of the ff wiki, especially gabranth's boss pages.
> 
> i thanked them in my first author's note, but this fic would literally not exist if it wasnt for all of my amazing betas, alphas, and hand-holders. this fic was a labour of fucking love and im so happy to see it done after all this time. i'm proud to have it out here in the world at last and i am so glad that people have enjoyed it.
> 
> i guess stay tuned for the far-off day in the future when i post the ridiculous sequel that's literally just me wanting otp porn heya

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr and twitter @jonphaedrus


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